


The Armoire

by UndeservingHero



Series: The Armoire [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, demisexual mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:52:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6462031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndeservingHero/pseuds/UndeservingHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory keeps receiving gifts from Mycroft and cannot figure out why for the life of him. Eventually, he asks the motive of the British Government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shirtsleeves

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to keep this as canon-friendly as possible. Please let me know if you see any holes. 
> 
> This story was inspired by... Jeez. I can't even remember. It started three months ago so I have no idea.

The last dregs of energy drained out of Lestrade as he leaned against the doorframe of one of Mycroft’s offices. He was sure this was just one of many going by the lack of anything but furniture. Mycroft didn’t strike him as the kind of man that didn’t have books in his office if he spent a great deal of time there.

He scrubbed at his eyes with one hand while the other lingered in his pocket. He was almost on his third straight day of being awake, and it was catching up in a hurry. He missed the days of no aches or pains before Sherlock wanted to drag him all over Britain at the drop of a hat.

“Detective Inspector?”

Mycroft’s voice cut politely through the fog of exhaustion. He sounded as if he had tried multiple times to garner his attention.

Lestrade straightened. “Yeah?”

Mycroft studied him a moment longer. “Nevermind. It can wait. I suspect we are both overtired. Nothing else will be getting done correctly until either of us has had some sleep.”

Lestrade felt very nearly drunk with the way his limbs felt like they were underwater, and his head was a bit woozy. “Didn’t know you Holmes boys needed sleep.”

Mycroft arched a brow at him. “To the contrary, we need approximately four hours of sleep on a regular basis to function.”

He looked so serious when he said it that Lestrade couldn’t help the snort that left him. “I was joking, but yeah, I have dearly missed my bed.”

Mycroft nodded. “As have I, as much as I am loathe to admit it.”

“I promise I won’t tell Sherlock.”

He was granted a small smile. “Yes, well... I’ll have a car brought around for you.”

“Could just crash at my place,” Lestrade suggested, unsure why he’d offered. “We’ll just be right back here in the morning anyway.”

Mycroft considered it for a long moment. He seemed to be coming at it from all angles but found no downsides as he nodded. “Alright.”

“Great.” Lestrade checked his watch. “I’m famished. Take away?”

Mycroft’s face said it all for him but after checking his own watch, sighed. “Yes, alright. I will be done in a moment if you would like to wait.”

“Right.” Lestrade propped himself against the doorframe again. If he sat on that leather monstrosity of a sofa, all would be lost.

What felt like moments later, a light touch on his elbow jerked him out of the dose he’d fallen victim to. Mycroft was looking expectantly at him.

“Shall we?”

Lestrade scrubbed at his face but nodded. “Yeah. After you.” He stepped back and let Mycroft precede him through to the lift. He found it odd that his body now felt like a livewire, but he knew it wouldn’t last long.

Mycroft looked at him strangely but said nothing as he led the way down to where a black car was already waiting in front of the building.

Lestrade held Mycroft’s door open out of habit more than politeness and may or may not have gotten a raised brow shot in his general direction. He promptly ignored it and slid in on the other side.

Neither of them said a word after Mycroft gave their driver instructions. Both were too tired to hardly function.

Their driver, bless him, retrieved their takeaway before driving them to Lestrade’s flat.

Lestrade set his shoulder against the wall as he walked along the corridor, dragging heavily.

Mycroft made a disapproving noise behind him, but he couldn’t have cared less at the moment. He was lucky he found the right key to let them in.

Lights revealed a flat that didn’t fit at all what Mycroft had assumed about the Detective Inspector. Everything was extremely tidy and clean. The furniture was mismatched in the manner of someone who had no interest in interior decorating but desired comfort.

“Not much, but then again, I’m almost never here,” he said as he pulled his jacket off and draped it over the back of a chair.

Mycroft nodded. “I am not adverse to it.”

“That was almost a compliment, I suppose. Let’s have that food,” he said, holding a hand out for it.

Mycroft handed over the bag and stood as straight as he could manage in his exhausted state.

Lestrade moved to the coffee table and plopped the bag down. Moving toward the kitchen, he slowly rolled his sleeves up to right below his elbows.

He retrieved two glasses of water and paused when he turned around to find Mycroft still standing in the middle of his living room, looking for all the world like he was at a loss.

“Mycroft, make yourself at home. You’re sleeping here. Might as well be comfortable.” He sat and started pulling containers out of the bag as if that was the end of it.

Mycroft hesitated a long moment but gave in and shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over top of Lestrade’s. The waistcoat stayed in place, but he relented enough to follow Lestrade’s lead and rolled his sleeves up, creasing and folding them neatly back.

The corner of Lestrade’s mouth quirked up as he watched, but he said nothing.

Mycroft perched on the edge of the sofa on the other end as Lestrade doled out boxes.

“Want a plate?” he asked

The silence dragged out a beat too long and he glanced over.

Realising he’d been caught in the midst of a slight nostalgic moment, Mycroft shook his head. “No, it is unnecessary. Thank you.”

Lestrade shrugged and pulled chopsticks apart. “Suit yourself.”

Mycroft took his own out and snapped them apart before choosing a container. He ended up with something with noodles. He was honestly too tired to care for once and his stomach was past the point of pained cramps.

Lestrade was too busy feeding the ravenous beast his stomach had become for a few moments to do anything other than eat. When he came up for air though, he glanced over and the surrealness of it all had him pausing for a very long moment.

Mycroft Holmes, “the British Government”, sat beside him on his well-worn sofa in shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. The fact that he was also eating directly out of a box of noodles slowly as if his motor skills weren’t working didn’t help Lestrade’s brain wrap around it any easier.

Mycroft didn’t look the all-powerful government head now.

He looked more the picture of a very tired elder brother with an extremely eccentric younger sibling.

“You need a vacation, mate.”

Mycroft looked over at him, mildly startled. “What?”

Lestrade waved at him with his chopsticks. “You. Vacation. Needs to happen before you go postal on Sherlock.”

He laughed quietly in the most set-upon way Lestrade had ever heard. “England would fall, and Sherlock would have burned it to the ground.”

Lestrade watched him and saw the cynicism behind the mask. He’d dealt with both Holmses for years now. “Then just take an afternoon. No phone calls. Nothing. Just you and whatever you want to do.”

Mycroft sat back with his box still in his hand and the cushion squeaked. “A novel idea, Inspector.”

“I do have those occasionally.” He took another small portion and chewed on it for a moment before saying, “Do you even know what you would do if you had an afternoon to yourself--guaranteed to be Sherlock disaster free.”

Lestrade watched him consider for a long moment and saw the exact moment he realised he didn’t.

“That’s what I thought,” he said as he sat forward with his box and put it on the table. “You’ve been chasing him for so long... Do you even enjoy anything anymore?”

He saw the frigid mask manifest for only a moment but it seemed to take all of his remaining energy. He met Lestrade’s eyes and looked at a loss yet again. “No. I have no idea.”

Lestrade considered it a long moment. “Tell you what; I’ll tell Donovan I’m off duty tomorrow and we’ll figure it out. I need a day of rest after dragging round after Sherlock anyway.”

Mycroft played with his chopsticks with long, slender fingers as he thought. “I will consider this, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg,” Lestrade corrected out of habit.

Mycroft rolled it around in his mouth a moment but made a face. “Would you mind Gregory? I do struggle with shortened versions of names.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Sure. Still technically my name.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft kept playing with his chopsticks as he pretended to be very interested in them.

“No problem, mate. You need it just as much--if not more--than I do. I know you love him, but he would test a nun’s patience.”

Earnest brown eyes were still turned toward Mycroft, and they made him almost uncomfortable because he felt like they saw right through him; which was a rare occurrence. He was usually the one who saw through people like window panes.  

Shaking the feeling, he said, “Yes, well, I am no expert on the patience of the pious congregations.” He took refuge in the food still in his hands.

Lestrade just shrugged and went right back to it as well. He might not be Sherlock, but he knew how to take a hint when someone needed a quiet moment to themselves. Dealing with the fallout of murders and all other bad sorts had left him with a rather apt grasp on human nature and their tics when they were uncomfortable.

Mycroft Holmes, despite his best efforts, was no exception.

 

Morning came and went as if it had never been.

Afternoon, however, found Lestrade waking groggily when the sun coming through the curtains slid across his face in a warm slice. He stretched and noticed how bloody stiff he was. Of course, he had been slumped over on one end of the sofa.

Scrubbing at his eyes, he sat up and decided on a good hot shower and coffee.

He felt like he was forgetting something important and looked around. His eyes landed on a pair of long legs in slightly rumpled slacks. Following them up, he found Mycroft still asleep. The waistcoat had disappeared during the night, as had the tie. He was cradled in the L between the back and the arm of the sofa, his head lolled to the side. Mouth slightly open with his breathing, he looked younger than Lestrade remembered. The stress was gone from his face and he could see the resemblance between the Holmes brothers.

He smiled to himself. Not like he’d ever tell either of them that. He liked his body parts right where they were.

Yawning, he rose and headed quietly to the loo, collecting things for a shower on the way. As long as Mycroft was resting, he was going to leave him alone.

 

Hot water did wonders for achy muscles. He mentally thanked whatever brilliant person that had come up with water heaters as he pulled on worn out jeans and a football shirt.

When he reemerged, Mycroft was still asleep right where he’d left him.

Without thinking too much about it, he headed to the kitchen to start breakfast and a rather large kettle of tea considering how tired he still was.

As he started cooking, shuffling noises came from the living room, and he peeked around the doorway to see Mycroft sleepily looking around as if he couldn’t quite remember where he was. The expression was so child-like that it made Lestrade’s chest tight.

“Morning.” He offered a smile as he rubbed at the pressure behind his sternum.

Mycroft’s eyes landed on him and a flicker behind glacial eyes of some emotion passed before it was even really fully there. “Good morning.”

Lestrade moved slightly so he could lean against the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Making breakfast. Anything special?”

Mycroft seemed to be already shaking his cobwebs away. “No, just tea please.”

Lestrade snorted. “You’re eating,” he said, tone brooking no argument. “No work today. Remember?”

The elder Holmes brother gave him the same petulant look Sherlock gave him when he was particularly peeved. Then, it melted away. “Yes, I do. I will need to make arrangements...”

“Go ahead. Still cooking anyhow.” He turned and settled himself in front of the cooktop.

Mycroft stared at the now empty place where Gregory had been standing. The Detective Inspector was still surprising him of late. Especially the black solid banded tattoo around his lower biceps, barely visible below the edge of his footballer shirt. It just didn’t fit with the rest of the picture...

Mentally shaking himself, he searched out his mobile and found it still in his coat. He phoned “Anthea"--as she had taken to calling herself lately. He made sure she knew, unless something truly, irrevocably unavoidable came up, not to call him. Even Sherlock. John had his number if anything went off the tracks.

In the middle of the call, Gregory brought him a cup of tea. He sipped it unintentionally and thought he would get a bitter mouthful, but it had both sugar and milk in it.

He looked down into the coffee mug and tried to discern what was going on, but it was like trying to the leaves that were no doubt settling at the bottom of the mug.

“Sir?” Anthea asked

He redirected his attention as his thumb stroked over the curve of the handle on the cup. “Yes.”

Deciding on how to broach the subject with Gregory, he rang off with Anthea and took in his surroundings now that his mind wasn’t impaired. He catalogued the things in Gregory’s flat, trying to discern more about him. It appeared that he had wrongly deduced some things about the Detective Inspector.

He knew he was divorced of course. That much was evident by the pale band around his finger from years of wearing a ring that hadn’t been removed often, if at all. He personally thought that spoke better of Lestrade than any words in his defence ever could on the subjects of loyalty and fidelity.

When Lestrade emerged again, he had plates laden with food that he dropped off on the coffee table before going to collect the kettle and his own cup.

“Gregory, I am curious about your thoughts. Do you think Sherlock acted wisely?” He fiddled with his spoon to avoid looking directly at him.

“Last night?” He saw Lestrade shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Dunno. We’ll see won’t we? Besides, what do you care what I think?”

Mycroft froze momentarily before his diplomatic training engaged itself. “I am simply curious and you are... friends with him.”

“AKA, you’re worried about him,” Lestrade said as he tucked into breakfast.

“He is my brother,” Mycroft almost snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed when he felt Gregory’s eyes on him. “Yes, of course, I am worried about him. So do you think he acted wisely?”

Lestrade put his fork down and considered for a long moment. “Wise? No, I don’t think so.” Mycroft raised a brow. “Did he do what was right? Yeah. He did. He saved our lives. The plans went nuclear and he got us out instead of trying to be a hero.”

Mycroft took that into consideration, nodding slightly. “That is true.” 

“Think your brother is finally starting to turn into a good man,” Gregory said as he took a sip of tea.

Mycroft finally looked at him then and gauged the other man’s sincerity. There were no lies in his shoulders or the corners of his eyes. No tremor in his hands.

“Think having John around has helped a lot, honestly. He keeps Sherlock grounded,” he went on. “He holds him accountable for his actions and doesn’t let go. Bit like a Bulldog, really.” He paused a moment and considered his tea as it swirled slowly in his cup. “I think your brother is brilliant, Mycroft. But I don’t think he’s wise. He’s rash and a pain in my arse most of the time, but he does right by John Watson. That’s all that matters really.”

The elder Holmes was honestly at a loss for words for the first time in years due to one of the most humble, modestly intelligent men he’d met. The fact that someone saw the best in Sherlock after everything he’d done was astonishing, and he hoped it didn’t show in his face.

He often thought Gregory akin to a goldfish, too unintelligent to see what was really happening right in front of him. Maybe he should give Sherlock more credit. He seemed to have chosen his Detective Inspector for more than just his ability to tolerate his heinous antics.

Lestrade might not think Sherlock wise for his recent actions, but Mycroft did for a distant past decision. He applauded it, in fact.

“Eat before it gets cold,” Gregory prodded.

Mycroft pulled himself out of his reverie and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Together, they ate in the quiet that early afternoon London offered. Clinking china and silverware were the only sounds shared between them, but it wasn’t a lonely quiet. It felt like they were long-time friends instead of uneasy acquaintances that only knew each other over an eccentric consulting detective that was regularly a ‘pain in the arse’ as Gregory put it.

It was a novel experience for Mycroft who very rarely dined with anyone except for business.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said after.

Gregory smiled. “No problem, mate.” He stood and collected their dishes, turning toward the kitchen.

Mycroft stared after him. He’d never been referred to as anyone’s ‘mate’ before and he didn’t think Gregory would say such a thing as a general title. Did the Detective Inspector consider him a friend?

Honest confusion clouded Mycroft’s mind.

When had that happened?


	2. Worn Out Jeans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the sun is good for the soul.

Lestrade put their dishes away and checked the time. Nearly two in the afternoon. He considered the conundrum of trying to get Mycroft to do something normal. 

Pubs and anything remotely like them were probably out. They’d just eaten so no idea was forthcoming there. He had no idea if Mycroft enjoyed footie or watching matches. He seemed more the type to like polo or some other stuffy sport. 

He fidgeted in the kitchen a bit longer before it dawned on him. He had been overthinking it. 

Grabbing two bottles of water, he rejoined Mycroft in the living room. “Come on. I have an idea how to spend our afternoon.” 

Mycroft did that eyebrow thing that always irritated him before rising and straightening his trousers. He watched as Gregory pulled on trainers with no socks and barely managed to contain his comment as he reached for his waistcoat. 

“Leave it. It’s warm out,” Gregory said from the doorway. He looked marginally excited about whatever it was he had come up with, and it made Mycroft wary. 

He gave a baleful look at his jacket and waistcoat, but he had seen the weather report himself. Warm and sunny. With some foreign rush of ‘damnitall’, he left them folded on the back of the chair and followed Gregory out into London. 

 

“St James’s Park is where you want to spend an afternoon... with me?” Mycroft asked as they got out of the cab. He stared out over the greenery in apprehension as Gregory gave the driver the right amount of notes. 

Gregory shrugged as he straightened. “Yeah. Figure with your job you don’t get out the office often. I like to come here after I leave the Yard sometimes. Nice place to work over a case or sit and just relax.” 

Mycroft looked dubious but said nothing as he stood on the pavement of the sidewalk. He looked a little lost and Lestrade rolled his eyes before handing him one of the water bottles. “Come on. You look like a lost duckling.” 

Mycroft gave him a cross expression and followed after him. He had no trouble keeping up with Gregory with his long stride. “I... I do not understand why people come to  _ parks _ .” He said the word like it was leprous. 

Lestrade shrugged. “Dunno. Peaceful in a way. Sound of kids playing and watching birds. Getting on in age so I guess it’s a bit comforting to know the world’s gonna keep right on going when I’m gone out of it.” 

Mycroft was quiet for a long time as they meandered along a path as if he were contemplating the retort. Lestrade couldn’t guess as to how his mind worked. He’d stopped trying a long time ago. He had just accepted that Mycroft was a little strange and a little scary but all-in-all an alright bloke. If anyone could put up with Sherlock like Mycroft did, they were a better person than they appeared to be. 

He had no idea why, but he trusted Mycroft. Implicitly. Maybe it was because he was, as Sherlock put it, “ _ the _ British Government”, or maybe it was because he’d never done anything to harm Lestrade himself. 

“Used to come here when I was getting divorced,” he blurted. He felt his neck flush. “Ya know. Just to clear my head.” 

He felt Mycroft look over at him but couldn’t meet his eyes. He’d never really told anyone where he disappeared to when it got bad with Shelley. He would just disappear for a few hours, phone off in his pocket. 

“I see,” was all Mycroft said as they kept walking. 

“Have you ever been married?” Lestrade asked. 

He earned a derisive snort in return. 

“Right. Sorry. Stupid question.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. 

Mycroft sighed. “No. I am sorry. Most people just automatically assume that no one would ever marry me because of either my demeanor or because of my occupation.” 

Lestrade shrugged. “I got married, and I was a punk before.” 

Mycroft actually slowed to a stop and stared at Lestrade’s back until he turned around. He looked angry with himself. “There’s always something,” he muttered. 

“Sorry?” Lestrade asked, perplexed. 

Mycroft put his hand in his pocket and shifted his weight to the other foot. “There is always something I miss.” 

Lestrade shrugged. “Sherlock does too. He didn’t know about it either. Still doesn’t.” 

Mycroft arched a brow in question and resumed walking toward Gregory and then past him. 

Lestrade fell into step beside him. “Anyhow, I was a hellion in the ‘80s. That’s where these came from,” he said as he pointed to the band around his biceps and pulled his sleeve up to show that it went all the way round and was about four centimetres wide. It was the solid blue of an aged tattoo. 

Mycroft considered a long moment as if processing it and didn’t know exactly what to do with the new information. “You said ‘these’. There are more.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Lestrade shrugged. “Another on my shoulder, one on my side, and one on my hip. No big deal.” He considered saying something but knew he would probably instantly regret it. 

Instead, he changed it. “The one on my side is from when I joined the coppers though.” He rubbed over his right side with his hand over his ribs. “That one hurt the most.” He looked back over at Mycroft. “You have any?” 

Again, Mycroft snorted, but he didn’t give him a disbelieving look this time. “No. I have no tattoos.” He glanced over at Gregory and found that the Detective Inspector looked honestly interested, not like it was an obligatory question. He swallowed and found himself saying, “I have thought about it before, but I am unsure as to if it would affect my work in the field should I ever need to return to it.” 

Lestrade made a humming noise of acknowledgement and let his head fall back as they walked along. His eyes were closed, and he counted on Mycroft to keep him from walking into anyone, their elbows and upper arms brushing occasionally. 

Instead of watching the path, Mycroft’s eyes lingered on the line of Gregory’s throat and the dark five o’clock shadow there from where he’d either forgotten or just decided not to shave that morning. 

A jogger almost collided with him, and he jerked his attention back front and centre. He got a nasty look and gave one in return while Gregory remained completely oblivious to any happenings as he wandered along. 

“If you weren’t who you are and didn’t do what you do, what would you get for a tattoo?” Gregory asked as he finally looked back down. 

Mycroft was almost startled by the question. “I am what I am, and I do what I do. How can I possibly answer that question?” 

Lestrade sighed. “Look, think of it as an exercise if you have to. If you hadn’t gone into government and didn’t have any of the repercussions of Sherlock, who do you think you’d be?” 

“That is a very convoluted question, Gregory,” Mycroft answered after a moment. 

He shrugged. “We’ve got time, and this is your day off. Let it be that kind of day where you do what you could have done if you didn’t choose your career.” He smiled. “I’d probably be a bassist in some band somewhere across the world. Maybe America.” 

“Would you have the awful haircut to go with it?” Mycroft asked, musing about it idly. 

Gregory laughed. “Probably. I did have a mohawk when I was younger.” He ran his fingers through his silvery strands, and they ruffled slightly. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised.” 

“Because you’re Mycroft Holmes.” 

The answer was quick and deadpan and Mycroft didn’t quite know how to respond until he looked at Gregory’s face and saw the small, sly smile and gave one of his own. 

The silence stretched between them but they walked like companions in it instead of stiltedly like strangers. Gregory was turning out to be very easy-going as people went. He didn’t make Mycroft feel as though he needed to get away from him because of the constant well of anxiety that hid in his middle. It was set at ease around him. Though, Mycroft conceded, he did sometimes remind him of a puppy with his exuberance in some things. The sunshine, for one. He caught him on multiple occasions with his head tilted back, just soaking up the warmth. 

In the quiet between them, he let himself consider the question that Gregory had given him. What would he have done had he not had to deal with... the other one? Where would he be if Sherlock hadn’t turned to drugs? Given the choice, what career would he have chosen?  

“I think, given the opportunity, I would have liked to have been an accountant. Maybe a partner in one of the firms based in London.” 

Gregory looked over at him in interest. “Yeah?” 

Mycroft made a vague gesture with his hand. “I enjoy playing the numbers, and I never joke about money. I believe I would have been good at it.” 

Lestrade smiled. “Yeah. I can see that.” 

“And it would have given me time outside of... well, everything... to do what I liked. There would be time to walk through parks with... friends... on my days off.” 

Lestrade couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know why I expected something like an aeroplane pilot or maybe a fashion man or something. Accountant makes a lot more sense.” 

Mycroft schooled his face from the bit of embarrassment he felt at being so mundane, but Gregory didn’t seem to be poking fun at his choice. He just seemed to have expected more out of him; something more fanciful. 

In a rush, he admitted, “Mummy had me trained in piano as a child. I may have gone somewhere with that. I rather enjoyed it.” 

Lestrade smiled. “Now, that, I believe.” He stretched with his arms over his head and leaned back as he walked. “Sherlock is the violinist and you’re the pianist.” He nodded as if that decided something. 

For some reason, Mycroft felt a smidge better about this whole afternoon spent with the Detective Inspector. Everything so far had gone rather well. No calls from Anthea. No texts from John. Nothing seemed wrong in the world and he had a... well, a friend to spend a warm autumn afternoon with. 

It was as if he’d somehow stepped into that other life for a moment, and he realized that it was the most relaxed he’d been in years. 

 

Lestrade stretched out, totally settled in for a lie-in. It was slated to be his one day off this week unless Sherlock turned up for some reason or other. Though, considering they had just averted a national crisis two weeks ago, he shouldn’t see him for a few days yet. 

He’d already had breakfast and tea so it seemed a perfectly sane thing to get right back into bed and nod off til he felt sufficiently slug-like. 

 

He woke not much later, overheated with his t-shirt rucked up round his waist and the blankets kicked off. 

Huffing into his pillow with his irritation, he stared at the wall obstinately before pushing himself up. He sat against the headboard and couldn’t resist the draw of his mobile. He loved his job too much was what he told himself. He knew it was really an obsessive streak in his personality. He couldn’t help it. 

A couple messages were from Gregson updating him on information about one case or another. There were ten from Sherlock rambling about the components in some cleaner brand that directly led to a murder six months ago. 

He forwarded the information to his new SOCO with a note for her to look into it.

He had another message from Shelley asking if he wanted to get together and have a talk. He deleted those. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to his ex-wife. He’d been a patient man for far longer than what was probably sane. He had closed that door in his life. No need to reopen it.

Another message dinged in just as he was about to close it and attempt more sleep. 

 

_ Gregory,  _

_ I do hope you are enjoying your Saturday.  _

_ I was alerted this morning that Sherlock found himself in some sort of altercation in Greenwich last night. He was being detained at New Scotland Yard until this morning.  _

_ I am having my assistant draft some papers on his behalf that, should they acquire your signature, make the whole situation moot.  _

_ My best, _

_ Mycroft Holmes _

 

Lestrade read it a couple of times just to be sure he read it right before sending back a message of his own. 

 

_ Mycroft,  _

_ What if I have no desire to sign those papers? What’s in it for me?  _

_ Lestrade _

 

Lestrade smiled slightly. He tended not to get cheeky with Mycroft, but he was in a particular frame of mind this morning.  

He got up, leaving the mobile on the bed and opened the window, letting in fresh air that was starting to turn frigid and the scent of autumnal London. He stood there a long moment and just breathed it in, hands in the pockets of his favourite jeans. 

He heard his mobile go off behind him and turned toward it. Flopping down, he sighed at the marginally cooler sheets before reaching for it. He hoped for a snarky comment, but received snappishness instead. 

 

_ Gregory, _

_ Please do not test my patience today. I do not have the energy. The papers will be on your desk tomorrow morning.  _

_ Mycroft Holmes _

 

Lestrade looked at the message a long time, and he could almost sense the tight-lipped way it had been typed. He knew how much Mycroft dealt with between Sherlock and the whole of the British Government and others besides. Out of the three, he wasn’t sure which was more trouble. 

 

_ Mycroft, _

_ You’ll have my signature. I was more curious as to what you would say. Don’t worry. If I can help Sherlock, you know I always will. _

_ Lestrade _

 

He hesitated a moment before he sent it. Why, he didn’t know. It was, however, the truth. No matter how much he denied his willingness to help Sherlock. 

He was on the verge of sleep again when a message pinged in. It was shorter than he’d expected. 

 

_ Thank you, Gregory _ . 

 

No signature or anything. Odd. Mycroft was very particular about that sort of thing. Then again, he could be swamped with trying to save England again. 

 

_ Any time, Mycroft _ . 

 

And despite all of his denials to the contrary, he would do his level best for either of the Holmes brothers. They had done far more for him than he could return. More Sherlock on that count, but he knew Mycroft never asked anything for himself. 

Lestrade paused. 

Mycroft never asked anything for himself. Not even a day off. 

Somehow, that didn’t sit right with him at all. 

 


	3. Handmade Scarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory is dragged, yet again, into the middle of Holmes Brother drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this yesterday, but I forgot all about it. I apologize.

Freezing rain pelted down onto the gunmetal strands of his hair as Lestrade stood outside a crime scene with what should have been Donovan but ever since that debacle with Sherlock and Bart’s, she’d transferred. He couldn’t say he missed her aspish attitude toward Sherlock, but she had been a quick one and she often saw things from a perspective that he never would have. 

He left her replacement, a green bloke named Croft who had been working up the ranks quietly, and went to grab an umbrella. He was good and tended to tolerate Sherlock’s oddities better than just about anyone else. Though, he’d seen the fallout of Bart’s first-hand while the department imploded on itself. 

He pulled his coat tighter around him and yanked an umbrella out of the unmarked car when he managed to finally get to it. He was water-logged and irritated by the time he got it open. A shiver tore down his spine at the respite from the rain, and he just stood there a moment enjoying not getting assailed by fat droplets of water that seemed to want nothing more than to slide down his collar. 

He walked back to Croft, and they spoke for a long time about what Sherlock had given them before flitting away into the night with a flush-faced John jogging behind. 

He wondered how long those two were going to dance around each other. It had been years now with no end in sight. He’d thought that after Mary, John would have finally gotten with the program, but here they were... Maybe he should just talk to John about it. Sherlock hadn’t ever acted like that around anyone else he’d known in the time Lestrade had worked with him. 

He cleared away everything with Croft and made sure he knew what he was doing before leaving the case in his hands for the moment. He was exhausted from being up for two days chasing after the conniving underbelly of London. 

And he was apparently becoming a little melodramatic from spending too much time with Sherlock. 

He rubbed a gloved hand over his face and left the umbrella with Croft, jogging to the car. Water had long-since sloshed into his shoes, and he had just given it up for lost. Luckily, the unmarked hadn’t decided to betray him, and the heater roared to life after a moment of his foot on the accelerator. 

He thought about taking the car back to NSY, but he knew he would just be back there early in the morning so he didn’t worry about it. His apartment was too far away to ride the tube, and he was too tired to even think about dealing with the crowds. 

He sloshed into his flat and dropped his wet everything into a pile to be left off at the dry cleaners before work in the morning. Even his pants were wet so he shed those too and fell into bed in the buff. 

 

The honey in the tea eased the fiery scratch in his throat for a moment as he stared up at the front of NSY. His plan was to go in, get the reports, and get out as fast as possible. He already had the kettle ready to go on his stove and a list of ingredients for his go-to soup for when he was ill in his pocket ready for the market. Sighing, he went in and ascended to their offices. 

Apparently, Sherlock hadn’t been answering Croft’s messages trying to ask him about some detail or another. A bit surprising really. Sherlock generally never passed up an opportunity to show his cleverness. Maybe he should text John and see if he knew what was up. 

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed hard. A flash of swimmy-headedness nearly took him to the floor as he stood next to Croft’s desk, and he had to prop himself up on the edge. His head lolled between his shoulders as he tried to collect himself. 

The warm contact of a hand sank through the shoulder of his suit and he looked up to see Croft’s concerned face looking at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright, sir?” 

Lestrade shook his head and straightened before nearly going over again. “‘M fine.” His fingertips lingered on the desk to keep him steady. “Not feeling well, but I’ll be fine. I’ll need all of the reports on what happened last night sent over.” 

Croft looked a little ill himself at the prospect of being left alone with the case and in charge of getting everyone to cooperate. 

Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got this. It’s not so hard.” 

Croft swallowed and nodded before Lestrade managed to get enough blood to his brain to direct his body to his office. 

He sat down for a long moment and fiddled with his laptop, pretending like he was working. He couldn’t focus on anything except the fever that was crawling through him and the fact that he had almost passed out on one of his team. 

He checked his email. Seeing nothing of note, he collected his coat, folders full of gorey details, and headed for the lifts. 

 

As far as Lestrade was concerned, there was nothing better in the whole world than a full kettle and a bowl of soup. Well, maybe his team winning a match, but there was very little else. 

He had just sat himself on the sofa when there was a very urgent rapping on his door. He gave a baleful look at his soup before sitting it on the table and getting up. 

The last person he expected to see on his doorstep was Mycroft Holmes, but he really shouldn’t have been surprised. He had been there before and had probably known where he lived for nearly a decade. 

“Mycroft?” he asked, probably appearing rather stupid, but he was too sick to care at this point. 

Mycroft gave him a once-over and made an almost imperceptible annoyed face at his choice of jeans. 

He glanced down and noticed he was wearing the most ripped pair he owned. The knee was missing, and he could see one pocket through a hole worn through the hip where he’d gotten it snagged three years ago on the fencing he’d been putting up around his old house. They were now designated as his “work around the house” jeans and never actually made it outside anymore. 

He looked back up at Mycroft and noticed that he was waiting with a brow raised. He stood back from the door and held it open. “What can I do for you?” he asked, despite being so against unwanted company that it wasn’t even funny anymore. 

After Mycroft came in and sat down in a chair and deposited a parcel beside his feet, he watched silently as Lestrade sat himself on the sofa again and picked up a bowl that smelled rather heavenly. 

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him over the rim of the bowl in a silent question. 

“Sherlock is missing,” Mycroft said. He had that look on his face that said ‘I am tired of my brother but can do nothing about it’. 

Lestrade gave him a blank look as he kept drinking. He was clearly unimpressed. Sherlock went MIA all the time. He swallowed and came up for air. “Why is this time any different than when he bolts off to God-only-knows-where?” 

“None of my... associates has been able to locate him in this amount of time. I fear that he and John may be in a certain amount of danger.” 

Lestrade sat his bowl on his thigh and looked a little more involved. “Have--” A racking cough cut him off and turned his head into his elbow. 

Mycroft sat forward and picked up the tea cup sitting on the table and held it out to him. 

When he recovered, he took it and sipped before muttering his thanks. He leaned back against the sofa and just breathed for a moment. He hated the feeling of having run a good ten kilometres and not actually moving. 

Having his wind back, he lowered his head to look at Mycroft. “Have you checked customs to see if he’s flown out somewhere?” 

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, we have checked all of the usual avenues of travel and some of the unusual ones. Nothing in either his or John’s names. He is no longer in London. Of that, I am sure.” 

Lestrade sipped at his soup as he thought about the answer. “I can go over all of his bolt holes and the houses I know about. We can check there and see if he’s been anywhere. I know John is with him, but he might just be looking for something.” 

“I have my networks already working on that, Gregory,” Mycroft said, nearly impatient. 

Lestrade just looked at him, unfazed and nearly ready to kick him out. “Look, Mycroft, I know you’re worried about him. He goes off to wherever it is that he goes off to and does his thing. He always comes back. Besides, John’s with him. He’s not going to let Sherlock do anything stupid.” 

Mycroft seemed to mull that over as he sat primly with his legs crossed at the knees. One finger trailed over his mouth as he looked at Lestrade, but Lestrade didn’t think he was actually seeing him. He was far away in that big brain of his and wasn’t even in the same galaxy anymore. 

In the meantime of Mycroft coming back from his galactic search in his mind for his little brother, he finished his soup and made himself another cup of tea. He brought a mug and the tin of tea for Mycroft since he wasn’t sure if Mycroft wanted his germs or not. 

_ He _ didn’t even want his germs. 

After nearly twenty minutes, he said, “Mycroft.” He waited a beat and nothing changed so he said it again, louder. 

The second time jerked Mycroft out of his mind palace and his eyes leveled on Lestrade with the piercing sharpness that was sometimes unsettling. “Yes, Gregory?” 

Greg sighed. “I know your people have been working but let me get my team in on this. They might find him where no one thought to look.” 

Mycroft snorted in disbelief, but he was out of options. “Very well.” 

Greg nodded. “Okay. Let me get my coat and boots.” 

A noise of acquiescence followed him as he dropped his bowl off in the sink before going to pull his boots and coat on in his room. 

He emerged in a leather jacket that had been seen its fair share of hard days if the rends in the fabric were anything to go by. A patch had been sewn onto the shoulder of something called  _ Theatre of Hate _ . That sounded mildly familiar to Mycroft, but he couldn’t place it at the moment. Multiple repairs had been made so it was obviously favoured. The dark black that it had once been had faded slightly to a slate grey. 

Old but not old enough to be part of the ‘80s rager that had been the Punk scene so he wondered at how long ago it had been acquired. At least ten years--

“Ready?” Greg asked before coughing into a handkerchief. 

Mycroft redirected his thoughts and paid closer attention to the man than the jacket. Gregory’s face was flushed, and he looked miserable. Dark circles were under his eyes and his usually well-kept hair looked in a bit of disarray.  _ Pillow from where he was lying on the sofa _ . 

Instead of just nodding, he rose and straightened his waistcoat. “I am.” He paused. “Thank you for whatever assistance you can offer. I realize you are unwell, but I have exhausted every other--” 

A palm risen in his direction halted further speech. “Told you I would do whatever I could for you. Be it getting you a cup when you come round for tea or finding your errant brother.”

Mycroft looked at Gregory’s face and found it guileless and open despite being unwell. He dipped his chin in a nod. “Again, you have my thanks.”

Gregory shrugged. “You can buy me a condo someplace warm to make up for it. Come on.”

He started moving toward the door and didn't see the look on Mycroft's mildly amused, albeit slightly confused, face. 

 

NSY was just as he had left it yesterday morning. His department was in its usual state of upheaval. He checked on the case his people were on first before he took up the chase of Sherlock. He sighed and coughed into a handkerchief before raising his voice and holding up his hands. “Alright, you lot, we’ve somehow managed to lose Sherlock Holmes. He’s been missing for roughly forty-eight hours. John Watson is with him. For the moment, this is our priority. Mr Holmes here has details on his last whereabouts.” 

He turned and went into his office, jerking the blinds closed before collapsing into a coughing fit and doubling over to rest his hands on his knees. 

The door opened and a hand steered him toward a chair. All he saw was a pair of very shiny shoes and the hem of light grey trousers. He sat and got his wind back, the black spots in his vision slowly disappearing. “Thank you, Myc.” 

Silence met his slip, and he was almost terrified to look up into the older Holmes’s face, but braved it. Mycroft looked like he was conflicted about saying something but refrained. 

“Are you alright?” 

Lestrade could feel the uncomfortable air coming off of Mycroft but nodded. “Yeah. I’ll live.” He moved to stand and had to sit back down. “Well, alright. I’m confined to this particular chair for the moment, but my team will help you. They need your information before they can do anything. I’m alright.” 

Mycroft appeared to be on the fence about leaving him alone but he got a shooing motion from Gregory and turned to leave, the door open behind him. 

Lestrade rolled his eyes, complaining about fussy Holmeses under his breath as he managed to get to his actual chair. 

He looked up when a head popped in around the corner of his door. 

“Sir?” 

He waved Croft in and the younger man walked in. “Yeah?” 

“You haven’t seen my wallet? It’s gone missing as well.” He seemed a bit annoyed. 

Lestrade shook his head. “When did you lose it?”

“Well, I thought I had it night before last, but it’s not at home. I thought maybe it had fallen out of my pocket. No one’s seen it though.” His hand ruffled through his hair and made it stand on end. He reminded Lestrade of a younger version of himself. 

“No. I haven’t seen--” Something clicked. He got up and started moving through to the squad room. “Alright, we’re not looking for Sherlock anymore. Start looking for Croft.” 

“He’s just behind you, sir,” one of the older officers said from his left. 

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. I know. On the logs. Look for Croft.” 

Mycroft walked over to him. “You’re not delusional with fever are you?” 

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. I’m not delusional with the bloody fever. It’s something he used to do to me. He’d nick my wallet if I was ‘seeing but not observing’. He’s done it to Croft.” 

Mycroft’s eyes went razor sharp on Gregory’s face and it nearly startled him how strong it was this close up. “How do you know he would use it?” 

Gregory shrugged. “Sherlock’s clever. He’d never use his own name. Or John’s. Not if he didn’t want to be found. So he stole someone else’s skin and is wearing it for the moment. Croft is young enough to be who he says he is, and he knew Croft wouldn’t figure it out.” 

“Oi!” Croft objected. 

“Shut up. He knew you would take a few days to figure out that it was gone for good. He knew exactly where he was going when he did it. So start bloody looking for Croft in the logs!” The last command was directed to the room and he looked much more intimidating than usual in the heavy leather jacket and nearly destroyed jeans. 

Mycroft was still staring at him and observed the hard edge he’d taken on and watched it melt away just as quickly as the room started to scramble to their duties. 

Gregory waited, hands on his hips, jacket pushed back to bunch up behind him. Mycroft admired the determination that was keeping him on his feet through the fever that was obviously affecting him. 

Mycroft admitted to himself that maybe he had underestimated this particular goldfish. 

 

It took nearly three hours for them to find Croft’s name on a pair of train tickets going to Paris, but they nailed down that it had been in a shorter time frame than what Mycroft had thought. Apparently, it hadn’t been until yesterday morning. That gave him some more hope that his brother hadn’t gotten into too much trouble. 

While Lestrade was trying to find any other reservations under Croft’s name in Paris, Mycroft scanned the news for anything strange going on in Paris that might smell like Sherlock’s doings but came up empty. 

“Found him,” Lestrade said as he leaned over Gregson’s shoulder. “He’s at a hotel near the Louvre.” 

Mycroft got up from the chair he had been occupying and came over to look at the computer screen. “That’s one of his favourites. I should have checked there.” 

He sounded like he was reprimanding himself, and Gregory shook his head. “No. You thought he was still in London. Or England, really. So we’re going to go get some clothes and go get him.” 

Mycroft arched a brow at him. “ _ We _ ?” 

“Yeah. We. You dragged me into this. I’m going to see it to the end.” He went into his office and collected the files that had accumulated on his desk and returned ready to leave. “Let’s go. The longer we wait, the more time we give Sherlock to do something stupid.” 

Mycroft was still trying to puzzle out Gregory. Not many people would volunteer to go chasing after his brother, much less while they were so ill. “I see your point, but my team can find him...” 

“I’m going, Mycroft. End of story. Let’s go.” 

Mycroft stood and watched as Gregory took off toward the lifts and could feel the eyes of Gregory’s squad looking at him. Sighing, he followed after. Probably best not to argue with him. He had found Sherlock, after all. 

After planning on their ride back to Gregory’s apartment, they decided to meet at the airport for a private flight on one of Mycroft’s jets. Which still boggled Lestrade’s mind. He wasn’t complaining though. The less people he was around at the moment, the better. 

Mycroft left him off at his flat, and he went in to collect clothes and his laptop for their trip. As he walked through his sitting room, he kicked something and looked down to see the parcel that Mycroft had shown up with. 

He leaned down and picked it up. It wasn’t heavy but it didn’t feel empty either. He looked to see if there was a label on it and found a folded piece of paper stuck under the string holding the brown paper around it. He decided it wasn’t really invading privacy to see who it was for. 

Unfolding it, he found a note written in very neat writing: 

_ Gregory,  _

_ Yours are horribly threadbare. Do us both a favour and wear these instead.  _

_ -M _

He arched a brow. As far as he knew, he was the only “Gregory” that Mycroft knew. He sat down with the parcel on his lap and carefully removed the paper. He had no idea what of his was “threadbare”, but he figured he would humour him by at least opening it. 

Inside were a neatly folded pair of jeans in nearly the same wash that the ones he was wearing had been when he’d bought them. He snorted and didn’t feel at all bad about going out in them now. He pulled them out and looked to see if they were even close to the right size. They were. 

Of course they were.

He shook his head and noticed something else tucked into the bottom of the box. It was soft when he picked it up, like a kitten’s fur. It was a deep emerald green as it unfolded to stream down his leg. “Why would he give me a scarf?” he asked the room. 

He sat on the thought for only a moment before taking them both to his room and laying them on the bed. He didn’t have time to contemplate the strange motivations of Mycroft. Right now, he was worried about Sherlock and  _ his _ strange motivations. 

He pulled out a satchel and started putting the things he was absolutely going to need in the next two days in it. After packing everything away, he turned back to the jeans. 

He wanted to hate them, but he didn’t. They were exactly like the ones he had on except they were whole. He made a disgruntled noise and shed his jeans and pulled them on. 

_ Damn him.  _

They were perfect. Down to the inseam that was an inch too long so it fit over his boots just right. 

He had no idea what to do with this information or the thought that went into this gift or why there had been any thought or gift in the first place. He scrubbed at his face and just stood there in the perfect jeans trying to force himself to hate Mycroft. 

He couldn’t. 

He took them off and folded them back up before shoving them in the satchel with his other clothes and pulled the torn and worn out jeans back on. He wasn’t going to give him the immediate satisfaction. The scarf was folded with care and tucked into the top. It was so soft that he really did like it and he’d always looked alright in green. 

 

It was odd to him to be ushered straight onto the tarmac by the driver Mycroft had sent round for him. There was a jet waiting, and he assumed Mycroft was already on it. 

Luckily, that particular assumation was correct. He was sitting with a dark haired, lovely woman who was tip-tapping away on her phone as she nodded to what Mycroft was saying. 

He looked up when he saw Lestrade and arched a brow at the jeans, but said nothing about it. 

Lestrade put his bag down next to one of the cream-coloured leather chairs and reached back to tug his jacket off. 

The woman got up and walked by, giving him a vague smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The aura around her was a subtle one, but he knew she had seen her fair share of trouble. 

Considering that Mycroft was her boss, he wasn’t all that surprised. 

He went over and occupied the seat she had left across from Mycroft. “Who’s she?” he asked. 

Mycroft had his “dealing with people” mask on, and Lestrade couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “She is my assistant... Anthea.” 

Lestrade shrugged nonchalantly. “Bit pretty for a soldier, but I can see why you keep her around.” 

The mask slipped a bit and he saw the surprise. 

“I’m not always an idiot, Mycroft. Sherlock just seems to think so.” He leaned on one hand as he tilted slightly sideways in his seat. “She has the same way about her that John does sometimes when he forgets to put on the facade that he’s a civilian.” 

Mycroft nodded slightly and that look he’d been having for the past few hours came back, but Lestrade couldn’t place it. “Yes, well, she is the best at what she does. Elsewise, she wouldn’t be working for me.” 

Lestrade shrugged again. “No doubt coming from me. Shouldn’t we be going though? Sherlock isn’t going to wait for us.” 

“Indeed.” He rose from his chair and walked toward the pilot’s cabin. 

Lestrade stretched his legs out in front of him and discovered that the seat leaned back. He could seriously get used to travelling like this. 

The engines started and Mycroft came back to sit across from him. “Since your discovery of where Sherlock is, I’ve had my people searching French surveillance. They seem to have found him at an entrance to the catacombs in  Place Denfert-Rochereau .” 

Lestrade nodded. “Fantastic. At least we have a place to start.” 

Mycroft pulled out a folder. “There is a map here.” He handed it over for Gregory to look through. “It has notations on it of likely places where they might be. As so far, they haven’t surfaced on the surveillance again. I will be alerted if that changes.” 

“Alright.” Lestrade studied the map and held out a hand. “Pen?” he said without looking up. 

Mycroft pulled one out of a pocket on the inside of his jacket and handed it over. 

Lestrade twiddled it for a moment before making a note on the map and showed it to Mycroft. “Here. There’s some sort of chamber or underground waterway west of the  _ Crypte du Sacellum _ and northwest of the  _ Lampe Sepulcrale _ . If it is a chamber, that could be what they’re looking for. It’s off the general map.” He made another note. 

Mycroft nodded. “I cannot see Sherlock staying on the beaten path unless he was looking for something actually  _ in _ the Catacombs. There are over 100 kilometres of tunnel down there though. It could take a year to find them.” 

Lestrade tried to think of things that might have triggered what was going on with Sherlock that had anything to do with recent cases. 

His brow furrowed, and he got up to grab his laptop case. “I may know what he’s looking for.” 


	4. Hat and Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the Catacombs of Paris they go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Achille calls Mycroft "Michel". This is the French translation for Michael. However, it is as close as I can get and I have a feeling that Mycroft wouldn't mind. He's a diplomat.
> 
> As a sidenote, it has been brought to my attention that reading this chapter in the dark gives it eight ways of creeptastic. So fair warning if you read with the lights off~

Touching down in Paris, they were escorted to their hotel. Mycroft had already booked ridiculously posh rooms at some overly expensive hotel near the Arc de Triomphe. It was beautiful, and Lestrade didn’t even want to know how the citizens of Britain would feel if they knew they were paying for a sod like him to stay in a place like this.

Evening was falling outside when they finally dropped their things off in their rooms, one beside the other.

Mycroft showed up in his room shortly after, not giving him enough time to collapse into that bed that looked entirely too comfortable for its own good with its big fluffy pillows and the duvet that seemed to be a metre deep of down.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“I’m ready to get in that bed over there and never come out,” he said as he picked up his rucksack from the chair and put it on his back. He’d nicked some waters from the small refrigerator in the room and had packed them along with batteries for their torches.

“Let’s go before I change my mind,” he said as he passed Mycroft.

“Gregory, I know you are unwell. You do not have to do this.” Mycroft hadn’t moved when Lestrade looked back, and he seemed uncharacteristically stubborn on the subject.

Unfortunately for Mycroft, Lestrade had decades worth of practice being obstinate. “I’m going. End of discussion. Two of my best mates are in the bloody Catacombs of all places being idiots. We’re going in after them. At least, I am. You can stay here. I know you don’t like being out in it.”

Mycroft’s face was openly torn for a fraction of a second before he nodded. “Wait here for a moment.”

Lestrade watched as he strode past him and went back to his room. “Bloody Myc and his bloody half-baked plans.” He sat down in one of the ridiculously spindly chairs and let his head fall back. His sack was positioned just right to support his back and he realized how bloody tired he was. He fell into a doze and was woken again by Mycroft knocking on his door which was still wide open.

He straightened and gave Mycroft a once over. The suit was gone. In its place were a heavy jumper the colour of fallen leaves and jeans that actually looked like they could see something other than a fashion show. Trainers were on his feet instead of the usual Oxfords. He wasn’t even aware that Mycroft owned anything other than three-piece suits.

“Well, at least you’re not going to try and go down there in the ‘Three-piece problem’,” Gregory said as he got up.

Mycroft blinked at him. “In the what?”

Gregory gestured to him. “You’re always in a suit. Be a bit difficult to get through the tunnels in that without it getting wrecked.”

“But ‘three-piece problem’, really?” He looked offended and Gregory smiled.

“Yeah. ‘Problem’. You need to lighten up.”

They walked down to the foyer still bickering.

 

Mycroft had somehow acquired a guide of the parts of the catacombs that weren’t on the sanctioned tour, and Lestrade was thankful of it. He hadn’t ever been there before so he wasn’t exactly excited to be traipsing through the dark with no idea of where they were going.

They were met with a short fellow who had black hair and the palest green eyes Lestrade had ever seen at the entrance that had been chosen by the guide. It wasn’t the tourist entrance and that was fine with Lestrade. The less people that knew why they were going down into the Catacombs, the better. He didn’t want to start a panic.

They shook hands with the man that Mycroft introduced as Achille.

Fluent French came out of Mycroft’s mouth as he spoke with Achille and let him know what they needed of him. Lestrade understood it, but he couldn’t speak it as well as Mycroft. He rarely ever had to use the skill.

Achille expressed some concerns and gave basic safety instructions. “If at any point you feel the need to come back to the surface, tell me. Claustrophobia is the biggest problem.” He turned to Gregory. “I am told you are ill. I advise that you stay here. However, Michel has told me that you are also stubborn and refuse. Breathing can become difficult, and we will be moving at a faster pace than just a leisurely walk. Are you still firm in going?”

Gregory considered Achille’s advice but nodded anyway. “I’m going. My friends are down there,” he answered in slightly accented French.

Achille dipped his chin in a nod. “Very well. Let us go.”

As Achille opened a door for them to enter a church, Gregory reached into his pack and pulled out two torches, handing one to Mycroft. Achille pulled a headlamp over his dark hair and gave it a test turn on before leading them down into the crypt. A heavy wooden door was pulled open and all lights went on as they descended down a set of stone steps into absolute darkness.

Gregory thought they would come out directly into the catacombs but there was a cellar at the bottom that had what he assumed were barrels of sacramental wine that were so dusty he wondered if anyone knew they were even down here.

Another heavy door led them into the tunnels. He expected the walls to be bones within the first few feet, but they were just milky white in the light from their torches. He could understand the claustrophobia being a problem though. The ceilings were lower than most, only a few inches above his and Mycroft’s heads.

Achille took the lead and he and Mycroft followed behind, shoulder to shoulder. It was an unspoken agreement and neither of them looked at each other.

 

Hours were spent trudging through the tunnels. Eventually, they happened upon another group of explorers. Achille conversed with them to ask if they had perchance seen a pair that resembled Sherlock and John. Unfortunately, they hadn’t.

Gregory glanced over at Mycroft when they got the news and saw the frustrated downtrodden look on his face. He bumped their shoulders together in a silent show of sympathy.

Mycroft looked over at him in the torchlight and nodded before they moved on again.

The cold was beginning to creep into his bones and slogging through shin-deep water didn’t help. Gregory could feel his exhaustion pulling at him like a blanket on a cold night, but he shoved it away. 

Achille stopped suddenly, holding up his hand.

Mycroft and Gregory stopped to listen, both looking ahead with their torches as best they could but the part of the tunnel they were in was a long curve and they could only see about ten metres in front of them before it turned out of view into darkness.

“Turn off your lamps,” Achille said in English, barely a whisper.

They didn’t hesitate in following the order. Whatever it was, it wasn’t normal for the Catacombs.

Darkness so purely black that they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces enveloped them like a chilling embrace.

All Gregory could think of was The Cask of Amontillado for some reason with the man being bricked up behind a wall while still alive.

He felt Achille nudge him back against the wall of the tunnel, and he tugged on the elbow of Mycroft’s jumper to get him to come with him.

They could hear nothing but their muffled breathing and the sound of their blood rushing through their ears as the adrenaline piqued from fear and the unknown lurking in the darkness.

Achille had obviously seen or heard something that gave him pause and he was as yet unsatisfied.

With the way he was acting, Gregory knew whatever he thought it was had a high likelihood of being dangerous. With a slow drag, he reached up and pulled the zipper down on his coat.

The weight of his handgun against his palm gave him comfort as he pulled it from its holster and held it down against his thigh with his forefinger beside the trigger and his thumb on the safety.

Suddenly, there was a heavy thud and swearing and multiple voices and all three lamps went on at the same time in search of the source.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were tangled up in a pile where they had obviously tripped over each other in the dark on the floor of the tunnel.

“Sherlock--”

“John--”

Mycroft and Gregory both moved forward to help them unwind themselves from each other; Gregory putting his gun back in its holster against his ribs.

Sherlock saw Mycroft’s face and groaned. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You disappeared again. What was I supposed to do?”

“Let me have a holiday?” Sherlock snapped with aspish sarcasm.

“Sherlock,” John said, an order for politeness in his voice.

Achille looked up at Mycroft. “I take it this is your brother and his partner?”

Mycroft nodded as he glared at Sherlock.

Lestrade and John stood by watching as whatever Holmes row was about to happen unfolded.

“You alright?” Lestrade asked as he leaned over slightly, keeping his eyes on Mycroft.

“Other than being exhausted and starving, yeah.” John dusted off the sleeve of his jacket where some of the white dust had collected when they fell. “I’m ready to kill Sherlock for dragging me down here. We’ve been down here for two days.”

Lestrade sighed. “I know you came looking for the killer. I remembered the finger bones when Mycroft told me they found you going into the Catacombs. I should have realized sooner that it wasn’t just a random thing. And they were old. Really old.”

John got a good look at him. “Oi, you look awful.”

“You look like the example of sparkling health yourself, John,” Lestrade returned.

John snorted. “Yeah, but you look a right sight worse.” Without asking for permission, he put his hand on Lestrade’s forehead and felt the fever burning under his skin despite the chill. His wrist was taken and he found that Lestrade’s pulse was steady but a bit weak.

“What’s the diagnosis, John? ‘M I gonna die in the one place where you could just stack me on top of the others?”

Achille coughed into his hand and turned away to go toward the rest of the tunnel to give them a moment. The Holmes brothers, however, were staring at the pair of them with the exact same expression on their faces.

John and Lestrade both looked over and instinctively moved away from each other by centimetres. It felt as if they’d been caught but that made no sense. To either of them.

Lestrade cleared his throat and looked at Sherlock. “So did you find anything?”

Sherlock seemed to shake himself from whatever emotion had been holding him hostage, but he still appeared annoyed at Lestrade. “We found where he was taking the bones from. We were headed back to the surface for provisions as we were running low.”

“We’ve brought some with us. I’m not sure how long they would last five of us though.”

Achille came back. “Approximately one day. I have more in my pack.”

“That should be enough time...” Sherlock said as he looked down and steepled his fingers against his mouth.

“What is he doing?” Achille asked Mycroft.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked as if he would have walked off but thought better of it since he had no idea where they were. “Being an idiot.”

John arched a brow and Lestrade stifled a smile.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft sighed and walked over to Gregory motioning for him to turn around. He opened the pack and pulled out the map that they had brought with them. As a second thought, he lifted up on the hook loop to alleviate the weight from Gregory’s shoulders. “I’ll carry this for a while.”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder with a confused look on his face but he slipped out of it.

Mycroft put it on his back and went back to Achille and they attempted to figure out where they were on the map so they could figure out where the killer’s favoured stash of finger bones was in relation to them.

Achille indicated a certain point. “It has to be here. There is an unauthorized exit that was supposedly sealed years ago not far from there.” He pointed to another place. “This is where we are, I believe. Along this long row.”

Mycroft nodded and memorized the bit of the map. It was only about a kilometre away.

He glanced over at Gregory to see if he really was as bad as John had said and saw him leaning heavily against the wall despite the wall being made of bones. John was lingering close but hadn’t moved to check any more vital signs. Sherlock was busy in his Mind Palace trying to find something, but Mycroft could only guess.

As much as he liked to pretend otherwise, he didn’t know every thought that went on in Sherlock’s head. Which irritated him. He’d helped raise Sherlock by being the best older brother he could be, but he still couldn’t always figure him out.

“Gregory, I think that once we reach this point, you and John should go to the surface with Achille.”

Gregory snorted and rolled his eyes. He looked at John. “Now he’s concerned with my health.”

“If you remember, I objected to you leaving London, much less coming down here.”

Lestrade huffed, silently concedeing.

“You bicker like you are married,” Achille muttered but in the silence of the tunnel, it was as if he’d said it aloud.

He set off and left everyone to follow. Mycroft and Lestrade were astutely not looking at each other while John watched in mild amusement.

John took Sherlock by the elbow and made him walk while he was still in the Mind Palace and followed after the older Holmes and Lestrade. “We found a part of the walls that had been excavated a bit. There seem to be bones missing and there are markings of a trowel or something similar on the surrounding bones according to Sherlock.”

Lestrade nodded in acknowledgement. “Anything else?”

“A bloody record player,” John said, shaking his head.

“A record player?”

“I assume to use as he digs,” Mycroft said as he glanced back. John still had a firm hold on Sherlock’s elbow as his brother did that preposterous ‘Mind Palace’ trick.

He knew it worked, but Sherlock didn’t have to be dramatic about it. Though, he had always been ridiculously over the top about everything in general. He pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled from the deep well of patience that was reserved for Sherlock and his parents.

“There was a stack of records beside it, so I guess so,” John said.

“Records,” Sherlock muttered. After a moment, his eyes slid open. “That’s it! It’s the records. He takes them when he murders them. There were six records. There have been six victims.”

Sherlock shoved past Lestrade and Mycroft and their poor guide and started running down the tunnel. Swearing in both English and French followed him. And John tore off right behind him.

Lestrade groaned and just slid to the floor, the bones behind him scraping against his back and catching on the leather of his jacket. “I’m going to kill him. I swear.”

Mycroft lowered himself to squat next to him after dusting off the white powder from his jumper. “At this juncture, I don’t think I’d blame you. I might not even try to stop you.” He offered a hand. “Come along. There is no telling what he’s gotten himself into now.” 

Gregory took his hand and let him help him up. He leaned heavily against the wall for a long moment and tried to get his breath back.

A vision swam up from the watery depths of Mycroft’s memory and he saw a much younger Sherlock in much the same position after almost drowning in the pond close to the cottage where they had grown up. He’d been trying to catch something. Possibly a lizard. He couldn’t have been more than five. Mycroft had been just a moment too late to catch him before he fell in the water but had managed to pull him out before any real damage was done.

The boy had been terrified and couldn’t seem to breathe right because of it so Mycroft had done the only thing he could have at the age of twelve. He didn’t run for help. He just picked his brother up and put him on his back, carrying him back to the cottage himself.

He took the backpack off, shoved his torch inside, and handed it to Gregory. “Put that on.”

Gregory raised a brow, but he didn’t argue; he just took it and strapped it back on.

Mycroft sighed. “If you ever tell anyone about what I’m about to do, I will deny it and have you killed.”

“Sherlock would solve it, but alright.”

Mycroft turned his back to Gregory and leaned down. “Come on, then.”

Gregory raised a brow. “What are you doing?”

Achille snorted. “He is offering you a ride. If I know Michel, he is humiliated right now. I would not turn him down.”

Gregory’s face flushed and it wasn’t from the fever. “Mycroft, I can walk.”

Mycroft straightened and his ears were red. “Yes, but your lung capacity is down and we need to move quickly.”

Gregory sighed and started coughing again, bending in half. It seemed like his own body was on Mycroft’s side. Bloody traitor.

“Fine,” he said between coughs.

Mycroft returned to his previous position and Gregory put his arms around his shoulders. Mycroft hooked his arms under his knees and then they were up and moving.

Gregory hid his face against Mycroft’s shoulder. “This is ridiculous,” he mumbled.

Mycroft ignored him and followed after Achille down the tunnel with Gregory’s torch giving them light. Gregory was heavy, being almost the same size as Mycroft, but Mycroft ran often and it gave him what he needed to get them at least until they came to a chatière. It was a hole only about a metre wide that extended past where the tunnel ended.

Achille shed his pack and made sure it was well secured before tying it to his ankle. “We will have to crawl through. Do not touch the ceiling. They are not secure and can collapse. I will go first.”

Mycroft set Gregory down and they both nodded. Gregory bent and secured the bag to his foot with the laces of this boot around his ankle much like Achille had. He gave a torch back to Mycroft and watched as Achille wiggled into the much smaller tunnel. It snaked around and they lost sight of him but after a few minutes, they heard his voice call back to come through.

Mycroft nodded and seemed to draw himself up before he carefully climbed into the tunnel, dragging himself into it with his elbows.

Gregory sort of mourned for that jumper because it was a good colour on the oldest Holmes. He blinked and shook his head. He had no clue where that had come from. Maybe just a casual observation.

He sighed. Probably not, though. He knew himself and couldn’t give a damn less about fashion.

A muffled thud came a few minutes later and then Achille called for Gregory.

He took a deep breath and could feel the sludge in his lungs getting worse. He knew he was going to be out for a week when they got back, but he had nowhere to go but forward at this point.

He hoisted himself into the waist-height tunnel and used his elbows to crawl through, keeping as low as he could. The torch was held backwards in his hand so he could see forward as he hauled his body through the tunnel. He was glad of the leather of his jacket but regretted wearing the jeans with the hole in the knee. He was pretty sure it would be bloody by the time he got through when it caught on a rough edge.

Finally, he emerged on the other side and John and Mycroft helped him as he turned over and they dragged him out.

When he was upright again, he looked around the chamber they were in and saw what Sherlock had meant about an excavated wall. There were bigger bones lying in a pile next to a mound of chalky dirt. He brushed the dust off himself a bit as he looked around. “Bit dim for a lair, yeah?”

Sherlock was across the room leaned down next to the record player and made an annoyed noise.

John snorted. “Yeah. That’s what I thought, but I suppose if you’re a serial killer, it’s ideal.”

Lestrade wandered toward the excavation site and poked around a bit after pulling on leather gloves to preserve fingerprints if there were any from this century.

“Greg, your leg is bleeding,” John pointed out, kneeling beside him.

Lestrade looked at it and shrugged. “Just a skinned knee, John. I’m fine. I’ll take care of it when we get back above the ground.”

He felt someone come to stand over him and didn’t have to look up to know it was Mycroft.

“Do you think it wise to leave a wound open where so many who died of pestilence are buried?” the oldest Holmes prodded.

Lestrade was about to answer when Sherlock finally had enough.

“Does anyone care that we’ve found the cavern where a serial killer has been hiding out?” he demanded.

Everyone turned to look at him and he squinted in the lights.

“Yes, Sherlock, we understand that, but the Detective Inspector is significantly ill to begin with. It wouldn’t do to let him contract a disease that has been extinct for centuries.” Mycroft gave Sherlock a condescending look and the younger glared at him.

“Enough, lads. I’m fine.” Lestrade rolled his eyes and turned back to the pile of bones. “Any ideas on why they’re separated like this, John?”

John, called to action, leaned closer and inspected the bones.

“It’s because--” Sherlock started.

“Are you a doctor?” John snapped. “Shut up.”

Sherlock looked like he was about to have a petulant bout before he flounced down onto the floor and leaned back against a wall that was made entirely out of skulls tucked into the ends of what appeared to be femurs.

John turned back to the piles. “These are all arm bones, best I can tell.” He pointed to different ones. “Radius from the curvature and the flat part here,” he said as he moved his finger above it in the air. “Ulna is the smaller one. Humerus is this one here. Most of them still have the joint attached.” He indicated the ball at the end that would have gone into the shoulder socket.

He shifted his weight and leaned to one side. “Those are all legs bones.” He pointed to a pile on Lestrade’s left. “There are no small bones though.” He sat back on his heels, confused. “No vertebrae or meta-bones.”

“Could be they were buried elsewhere,” Lestrade pointed out.

“No. The amount of soil here is indicative of less space than is actually in the hole,” Mycroft said from above them.

Achille, whom had been poking around the tunnels that branched off of their chamber came trotting back. “Someone is coming. Put out your lights.”

Lestrade swore under his breath.

John stood and helped him up.

Sherlock looked bloody delighted of course.  

They all moved to the other side of the chamber where the entrance to a different tunnel connected and all of them moved far enough back into it that they couldn’t be seen by torchlight.

Their lights were clicked off and they settled in to wait.

Lestrade pulled out his handgun and he heard a rustle in front of him that said John was doing the same.

The oppressive quiet and the inkiest of blacks wrapped around them. It pushed on their conscious minds and had the cold trickle of apprehension creeping down their spines that could very quickly turn into crippling fear.

Thank God they heard something be set down in the chamber and a light flickered over one wall before the dim glow centred on where the record player was.

Gregory counted the beats of his heart until he felt more than saw Sherlock and John move. He inched forward and watched the scene unfold in front of him as he kept his gun trained on the shadowy figure that wasn’t Sherlock. He’d let the person remain unaware of his presence until necessary. It had a tactical advantage in case he tried to do something adverse to John or Sherlock.

“I find it interesting that you used finger bones. Why? Because you were proverbially ‘pointing the finger’ at people who had wronged you?”

The light swung around at the sound of Sherlock’s voice and pointed at his face. He raised a gloved hand to guard his eyes.

“Who are you?” a heavily accented female voice asked.

_ A woman? _ Lestrade thought to himself.

“It’s always something,” he hissed. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade could only see Sherlock’s silhouette so he assumed John was against a wall and moving in on her.

“Ah. The detective.” Distain was in her voice. The light rose to about shoulder height so Lestrade assumed she’d stood from her crouch. “And where is the doctor? Your blogger. You are never without him.”

“Right here,” John said and then the light hit the floor of the cave and rolled away, a beam erratically bouncing around the cavern.

An enraged shriek left her and Lestrade hit the button on his torch. Mycroft did the same behind him. They watched as John wrestled her into a chokehold.

Lestrade moved forward and took over, handing his torch to Mycroft as he pulled out his cuffs and put his gun away. He flipped her over and put his knee on her lower back as she struggled while he cuffed her hands behind her back. She managed to scratch his wrist and he grunted.

“Really, John, I didn’t even get to finish my deduction,” Sherlock complained behind him.

Lestrade rolled his eyes as they devolved into bickering about Sherlock’s safety. He hauled the woman up off the floor and held her firmly above her elbow. “What’s your name?”

She gave him a ‘go to hell’ look and remained silent as she seethed.

Mycroft bent over a bag on the floor and found a wallet made of red leather tucked in the side. “Eglantine Desrochers,” he read aloud.

She started swearing in French and calling Mycroft every name in the book. Lestrade jogged her with the hold he had on her arm and she stopped.

“That’s enough.” He looked far more irritated than was probably warranted.

Mycroft rose and picked the bag up, putting the extra torch into his pocket. “I believe it is time we get back above ground.”

Achille appeared from their previously occupied tunnel then and turned on his headlamp. “Follow me.”

Sherlock and John were still bickering and then fell into a huffy silence as they headed toward the exit that Achille had found.

They all blinked like owls when they surfaced. Dawn was just breaking over Paris. Thankfully, they hadn’t arrived in the middle of the day or all of them would have been blinded. 

As the world started to come back into focus, Sherlock’s phone started to ding with text after text and John rolled his eyes. 

Lestrade looked at Mycroft. “Can I use your mobile?” 

Mycroft pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over after unlocking it. “Why?” 

“I know you have international calling. I don’t,” he explained as he typed in a number.

Interpol arrived not much later to assist with the situation and to take their captive into custody. Lestrade didn’t want to drag her back to England, and it was much easier just to hand her over to them. 

He started to feel even worse as they discussed what had transpired with Eglantine. His vision went spotty and he swayed. 

_ “Are you alright, Detective Inspector?” _

He blinked and everything came back into focus. “I’m fi--” 

His vision blacked and he felt himself falling before he went unconscious. 


	5. Umbrella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory is stuck in hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is halfway through this little adventure. Enjoy some feels.

Mycroft stood by as Gregory dealt with Interpol and saw the exact moment when he blacked out. He managed to move fast enough to catch him before he hit the ground and grunted as he took on the extra weight. The Interpol agents went into a tizzy about it and started to call for an ambulance. Mycroft let them as he lowered Gregory to the concrete and put the backpack behind his head. 

John came over on his other side and started checking vital signs. “Christ, he’s burning up. He needs to be put in an ice bath immediately. Pulse is thready and too fast. Shit.” 

Mycroft felt his stomach drop and sat back on his heels as Sherlock lingered above and behind John. His brother even managed to look concerned. It seemed John was having the same effect on him that Gregory was having on himself. 

In the distance, they heard the sirens and the feeling of doom settled into Mycroft’s gut. He regretted involving Gregory at all. He should have let the poor man rest and get over his illness. 

A thousand scenarios flew through Mycroft’s mind and very few of them were positive. 

 

Mycroft sat alongside Gregory’s bed and went over paperwork, looking up on occasion to give a cursory check that Gregory was still breathing, albeit laboriously with a rattle that had all of the specialists concerned. 

He had a rigorous run of antibiotics being pumped into him through IVs stuck into his arm. He was pale underneath his tanned skin and dark circles had developed under his eyes despite his continuous sleep. 

Mycroft had to admit to himself that he really was concerned about the Detective Inspector. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he was safe in the depths of his mind. 

It was, after all, his fault that Gregory had been in the Catacombs to begin with and not at home getting well after the terrible cold he’d been suffering. 

Pneumonia had set into his lungs and was hanging on with a tenacity that had a tendency to frustrate the doctors that were tending to him. 

After he had been stabilized in Paris, Mycroft had arranged for him to be flown back to England and placed in a private care facility. He had pulled strings and called in favours that he usually only used for his foolish little brother. He was honestly baffled by his own reaction to these happenings. 

Annoyed at his lack of understanding, he turned to his files and paid closer attention to something that he  _ could _ wrap his mind around. He was good at this, and he didn’t regret going into this particular pursuit of knowledge and power. In some ways, he could understand Sherlock’s constant need for a case. 

He had one of his own on his lap that involved much more than just one poor dead soul whom had been chosen at random by a killer. 

National security was, yet again, sitting in his lap waiting for his undivided attention. At the moment, though, he couldn’t give it the attention it needed. Gregory had been more of a distraction the previous weeks than anyone else besides Sherlock. 

He rose in a frustrated huff with not understanding what he was feeling and prepared to leave. 

Behind him, he heard, “Where are you going, Myc? Somebody’s going to have to explain what’s going on.” 

Mycroft straightened and took a deep breath as his lashes fell to his cheekbones. He found himself offering a silent thank you to the ceiling before turning with the Mask on. 

Gregory was looking at him with his head tilted sideways on his pillow. He looked more than exhausted but his eyes were open and that was the most important thing about today. 

“You are awake,” Mycroft said. He realised how absolutely stupid that sounded but couldn’t take it back. “You collapsed in Paris after we ascended from the Catacombs. You have a severe case of pneumonia. I had you moved back to a facility near London. You have been unconscious for three days.” 

Gregory lifted a hand to rub over his face and the sleeve of the hospital gown fell to reveal that tattoo around his upper arm again. “Jesus.” He rolled onto his side and started coughing vehemently, unable to control it. 

Mycroft sat back down on the edge of his chair and laced his fingers together, wishing he had something to fiddle with. As soon as Gregory recovered, he said, “You are being treated with antibiotics and fluids to help you maintain your health. Now that you are awake, you can eat on your own and that can be removed as soon as your body is caught up on consumption.” 

Gregory nodded. He was breathing hard as he answered. “Sounds good.” 

Mycroft rubbed his palms together. “Do you need anything?” He never thought he would find himself asking a question like that, but here he was. Gregory seemed to be changing all sorts of things about him of late. 

Gregory looked at him, lying with his cheek pressed to the pillow. He just breathed for a few minutes to get it under control again. “Clothes would be nice. I hate these gown things. I have pyjamas in my flat.” 

Mycroft nodded. “I had the forethought to have Anthea retrieve some; though they are new. I didn’t feel it appropriate for her to rifle through your things.” 

Gregory just looked at him and rolled his eyes. “‘Course not.” He sighed. “Thank you though.” 

Mycroft rose and Gregory noticed that he was dressed in jeans and a sweater. The knot of a tie and Oxford poked up out of the collar but it was better than the Three-Piece Problem. 

“I need to go. I am glad that you are awake. Please do have them call me if you are in need of anything.” 

“Sit down. That’s what I need you to do,” Greg said, hauling himself up to sit against the headboard. “And hand me my pyjamas.” 

Mycroft looked mutinous at being told what to do but sighed and cooperated. “Yes, well...” He didn’t have anything further that he could say. 

He lifted the bag that Anthea had deposited on the other chair in the room and handed it over to Gregory. He sat back on his chosen perch and looked at the floor as Gregory managed to get into the new clothes without flashing anything important. 

He dropped the gown over the side of the bed, and Mycroft looked up. He saw the tattoos Gregory had talked about before. Over his ribs were scrawled words that took a moment to decipher, but when he did, he froze. 

_ For Queen and Country _ was looped over the smooth skin of Gregory’s ribs in beautiful script. 

Mycroft felt his breath seize in his own chest and couldn’t take his eyes off of the words until a plain grey t-shirt was pulled down over it. As if it had broken a spell, he flicked his eyes up to look at Gregory who was busy trying to figure out how to work his IV around the new clothes without pulling it. It ended up through the collar of the shirt and looked only mildly ridiculous, but he seemed more at ease. 

“Better?” he asked. He clasped his hands in front of him and tried not to think about anything other than Gregory’s health. 

“Much. Thank you.” He shifted his pillows to sit up behind him and leaned back against them. “Just tired.” 

Mycroft nodded. “That seems to be a common symptom from what the physicians were telling me.” 

Gregory hummed in answer and let his head fall back. Unfortunately, it seemed like the pneumonia knew exactly when he was trying to rest. Racking coughs made him fold nearly in half as one arm went across his stomach. 

Mycroft rose and moved to stand by his side and lifted his hands uselessly but Gregory’s other hand came up to fend him off. 

“‘M fine,” he mumbled when he sat back up. 

“Obviously not.” 

Gregory glared at him. “I’ll live, Myc. Stop fussing over me.”

“I do not ‘fuss’,” Mycroft snapped. 

Gregory snorted. “Yeah. Right.” He shoo’d Mycroft back to his chair. “What happened with the killer?” 

Mycroft found himself not wanting to talk about the case but answered anyway. “Interpol took her into custody and disappeared with her after they were assured you would most likely survive. It was in the papers yesterday morning. Sherlock is on his usual high from a solved case.” 

“You mean he slept for two days and finally ate something?” Greg pointed out. He knew how Sherlock was. He understood. 

“From what John said, yes.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs at the knee. “it is far better than...” 

“Yeah, I know...” Gregory said. He sounded morose at the very idea of how Sherlock had once been. 

Of course, he had seen his brother at his very worst. He had been spiralling out of control so quickly that Mycroft hadn’t had a clue what to do. 

Until there had been a murder at one of Sherlock’s boltholes and Gregory Lestrade had shown up. He had listened to Sherlock as a witness at first but had seemed to hear the brilliance through the mad rambling.

Together, they had managed to get Sherlock clean for good. 

At that moment, he realized just how much he owed Gregory. 

“Thank you, Gregory.” His voice sounded tired, even to himself. 

Gregory seemed to have gone down the same memory path because he shook his head. “Don’t thank me. Someone needed to do something. He was too far gone for you to handle, even with your resources.” 

Coughing took over again and this time Mycroft remembered the water ewer on the table beside Gregory. He poured a small glass full for Gregory and handed it over once the other had control over his fine motor skills again. 

He sat on the edge of the chair in case he needed to move back to the water and steepled his fingers in the open space between his knees. “Regardless of your want for thanks or not, I owe you a great deal on Sherlock’s behalf. Between you and John Watson, he has become so much better than he could have been. Without the two of you, I do not believe he would have made it to his current age. Without you, I  _ know _ he would not have lived to the age of thirty. So thank you for saving my brother on countless occasions.” 

Gregory looked at him for a long moment before redirecting his attention to the glass in his hands. He seemed to consider his words carefully. “Myc, we’ve done this together for a long time. You have done just as much for Sherlock as I have so he should be the one thanking the both of us. You need to stop apologizing for your brother. He doesn’t need it anymore.” 

Mycroft stared at him. “What do you mean?” 

“He’s got John to chase after him now. Hell, he’s been chasing after him for years now, but Sherlock’s too dumb to see that. John will take care of Sherlock better than either of us could. Trust him to do it, and stop apologizing for Sherlock. Stop cleaning up his messes and let him deal with them for once.” Gregory looked relieved. It was almost as if he had been waiting a long time to get that off his chest. 

Mycroft tried to process what the Detective Inspector had just said to him. 

He had, of course, assumed that Sherlock would one day either get into so much trouble that he could no longer help him, or he would find someone who could control the hurricane that was his brother. He hadn’t, however, counted on the knowledge nearly knocking the wind out of him. 

He sat frozen on the edge of that chair as Gregory looked back at him. He had no idea how to react with the revelation that had just come out of the other’s mouth. 

Gregory sighed, and it sounded strained. “You need to stop trying to be his dad, Myc. So let him screw up and get his own hands dirty. Slowly retract yourself and see if he can swim. He needs John around to tell him no. You’re just enabling his ridiculousness.” 

Mycroft opened his mouth to object but couldn’t find a good answer before Gregory cut him off. 

“No. Don’t argue with me. He needs John and he needs you, but he needs you to be his brother and not a parent who hasn’t learned how to say ‘no’.” 

Gregory looked rather cross with him as he leaned over to sit his glass aside. 

“I know you love him. I get it. I’m an older brother too. You have to let go sometimes and trust them not to strangle themselves with the rope, alright?” 

Mycroft didn’t care for Gregory’s analogy, but he understood. He knew Sherlock was better than he had been since childhood. “Alright,” he finally relented. 

“Take some time for yourself, Myc. Minus the day we spent together, when’s the last time you had a vacation?” Gregory asked. 

Mycroft sighed. That was an excellent question. He knew the answer but didn’t want to admit it aloud. Gregory’s openly concerned expression prised it from him though. “Christmas.” 

Gregory’s brow furrowed. “Mycroft, it’s Octobre.” 

“I am aware as to the date, Gregory.” He rubbed his hands over his face in exhaustion. “Sherlock calls it being married to The Work. I am inclined to agree.” 

“Sherlock is also incredibly melodramatic. But I know what you mean.” 

Mycroft got that look on his face that told Gregory he was about to goad him. “No, I never would have guessed. Not the Detective Inspector who spent so many hours at the office they named the team’s room after him.” 

Gregory shrugged. “At least I know where my priorities and loyalties lie, Myc. A lot of people cannot say the same.” 

Mycroft blinked. That wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting. It wasn’t often he found someone who wouldn’t take the bait. 

“Having a passion and having an obsession are entirely different, Myc. My work is a passion. I want to help people. That’s why I spend so much time doing it. Which is yours?” 

Mycroft hated the look on Gregory’s face because they both already knew the answer. 

He rose and smoothed out the front of his jumper before collecting his briefcase. “I need to be going. I do hope you feel better soon, Inspector.” 

Gregory watched him tuck his tail between his legs as he retreated to the doorway. “You know where to find me, Myc, if you need to talk more.” 

“Get some rest, Gregory,” Mycroft said as he paused in the doorway, backlit by the overheads in the hallway. Then, he was gone. 

After Mycroft’s disappearance, Gregory sighed. The Holmes brothers were more alike than either of them wanted to admit. Neither of them wanted to admit they had a problem of any sort. He was just afraid Mycroft wouldn’t get help in time. Sherlock, at least, had John to look after him. 

Who looked out for Mycroft Holmes? 

He sat and pondered it for an age before something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. It was tilted against the arm of the chair Mycroft had been occupying. 

An umbrella leaned innocently enough against blue leather, but a tag hung from the curved wooden handle. 

Gregory stretched, careful of his IVs, and collected it. He knew Mycroft wouldn’t have forgotten it if it weren’t to serve a purpose. 

He flipped the tag over and read: 

_ Stay dry, you idiot goldfish. _

_ -M _

He blinked at it, confused. Why would a goldfish want to stay dry? Then, it dawned on him that Mycroft intended for him to keep it. His mouth quirked up at the corner in a half smile, and he shook his head. 

Before he could think too much on it, he fell into another coughing fit that nearly made him black out while the umbrella rested next to his thigh on the bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my timezone, this is technically tomorrow. So I'm not early. Just not late~


	6. Winter Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory has had enough of Mycroft stepping lightly around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, unfortunately, late again. There was an air show at the local base today and I was so excited that I forgot to update. My apologies. <3

The weather was promising to be absolutely miserable when Gregory looked out the window. Heavy, thunderous clouds hung over the little glenn that his current haven was located in. Rather matched his mood, really. 

He hadn’t seen Mycroft in days. Croft had stopped by with his laptop and a few files just to keep him from going completely mad while multiple doctors detained him. 

At least that particular slice of Purgatory was over and he could get back to life as usual. 

He had discovered his pack from Paris was in his room and still had his clothes folded inside. He had donned them with the relief of not being in pyjamas anymore. With care, he tied Mycroft’s gift around his neck before pulling his own familiar jacket on. The soft knit felt... well, cozy along his jaw. 

He felt good after spending a week in hospital; which could so rarely be said about hospitals. He had no doubt that Mycroft had placed him in a private care facility because he felt responsible. The elder Holmes held some guilt about his collapse that persisted despite his assurances to the contrary. The fact that he had avoided him for four days was proof enough. 

He needed to call him. 

Stepping out onto the small turnaround that stood in for an admit bay, he saw a black car and realized how redundant that would be. Of course his physician would notify Mycroft of his release. 

Instead, he leaned on the umbrella that had been left in his care and waited for it to pull up for him. 

He didn’t wait for the driver to come round, pulling the door open himself. He slid in beside Mycroft and settled himself, umbrella held with care between his knees. 

“Mycroft.” 

Mycroft hesitated a moment at the tone Gregory had used. “Detective Inspector.” 

Gregory finally looked over at him and arched a brow, waiting. He wasn’t quite sure for what, but he knew there was something Mycroft wanted to discuss or he would have just sent the car. 

“I assume you are well. The physicians deemed you fit enough to release.” 

Gregory rolled his eyes. That was definitely not it. “All of which, I know. Get to the point.” 

Mycroft stopped running through the soliloquy he had only briefly prepared before Gregory had gotten into the car. The fact that he had even bothered with a rehearsed speech was disconcerting. 

He felt even more ridiculous when he realized that Gregory was actually wearing his scarf. The surge of a strange, almost nauseated, feeling pressed against his diaphragm. 

He had first noticed this heinous  _ feeling _ when Gregory had collapsed in Paris. As the Detective Inspector had lain unconscious with the fever for three days, he had spent a considerable amount of time at his bedside mulling over what it all meant. 

He now knew what it was but had no desire to admit it. 

_ You’re  _ fond _ of him, aren’t you, Mycroft? _

Sherlock’s voice was plain as his own inside his mind. 

He flinched slightly and resisted the urge to hush him aloud. He focused his attention back on Gregory, whom was still awaiting an answer. 

He found himself unable to provide one. 

Gregory rescued him with a bit of charitable commentary. “I’ve no idea why a  _ goldfish _ like me would need an umbrella to keep dry. We thrive in the wet,” he said as he offered Mycroft’s constant companion back to him. 

Mycroft carefully took it from him and felt both foolish and a bit let down. It was obvious Gregory had not understood the sentiment, but there was no possible way he could have known about his conversation with Sherlock. 

“Considering your almost drowning, I would like to argue that fact.” He was trying very hard to keep his embarrassment in check. He should have seen the completely obvious  _ literal _ meaning to what he’d said on his note.

Gregory snorted. “I have an umbrella of my own. Besides, what would anyone think if you showed up without it?” 

Mycroft actually pondered that. “Something terrible would have had to happen, I suppose.” 

“Exactly. Can’t have Her Majesty in a tizzy can we? Just wouldn’t do.” 

Mycroft could feel more than see Gregory’s smile but ignored the jibe. “Regardless, you must take better care of yourself.” 

“Pot. Kettle.” 

Caught in between admitting Gregory was right and ignoring it altogether, he went with the latter. 

He nudged a box across the seat so it would press against Gregory’s thigh. 

Gregory arched a brow at him. “What’s this?” He just looked at the glossy black top instead of reaching for it like most would have. 

“A gift in repentance for ignoring your physical condition in the midst of my hunt for Sherlock.” He had thought a long time on what would do as a sign of regret and had come up with the contents of the box. 

Gregory made a disgruntled noise. “Myc,  _ I _ ignored my condition when I found out Sherlock was missing. I blame no one for my collapse but myself. If I’d found out about him galavanting off to Paris on my own, I would have gone after him anyway.” 

“Yes, but--” 

“If I hadn’t gone when I did, Sherlock and John might have gotten lost in the Catacombs because Sherlock is an idiot when he’s on a case. Mycroft, stop apologizing for my decisions. I know what I did. I know why. I wanted to help. I helped.” He cleared his throat to stifle a cough. “So stop feeling guilty and giving me gifts.” 

Mycroft scoffed. “I don’t feel guilt, Detective Inspector.” He looked particularly pompous as he stared forward. He was avoiding eye contact but not so obviously that anyone else would have noticed. 

“Right. And I’m the King of England.” He rolled his eyes and leaned against the door. He watched the streets outside of London go by and waited. Either Mycroft would admit it or he wouldn’t. He didn’t care. Not really. He just hated being lied to; especially from people he thought highly of. 

He watched the world go by as the silence curled between them like some great tentacled beast that filled up the space, feasting on the awkwardness that had settled between them. 

After what seemed like forever, Mycroft finally worked up enough nerve to say what he had been contemplating for the last ten kilometres. “I struggle with admitting things that are detrimental to myself or any of my plans. So yes, I am sorry. I do feel guilty about what happened to you. However, I cannot help it. You are an important person in Sherlock’s life and I did something that could have endangered your life. It very nearly did.” 

Gregory sat quiet but looked over at him. Mycroft was silhouetted against the grey skies and the passing trees on either side of the road as he looked out. The outline of one of the most powerful men in the northern hemisphere seemed downtrodden. 

His silence seemed to urge Mycroft on. 

“Sherlock has been the one constantly inconsistent person in my life. As so far, you have become another person that I can count on to at least be there when the need arises. For that, I thank you. However...” He seemed to pause and consider saying anything further. “I am afraid I’ve grown...  _ fond _ of you.” 

He sounded like he had an awful taste in his mouth around the word but Gregory tried not to be offended. He knew how they were. 

Then, it dawned on him what exactly Mycroft might mean. “What exactly do you mean by ‘fond’, Mycroft?” He asked it gently just to make sure Mycroft knew that it was okay, whatever the answer. 

The disgruntled pinch of his brows above his nose gave away his hatred for this kind of conversation. “I mean that I’ve grown to care a great deal about you, Gregory... To the point where I have been doing things I normally wouldn’t in your presence. I have no desire to act on this feeling so do not worry.” 

Gregory stared at him. There was no fucking way. No bloody way that Mycroft Holmes cared about him... like actually, truly cared about him in that respect. Before he let the silence drag on too long and make Mycroft uncomfortable, he searched for something to say. 

“If it counts for anything, I’m rather fond of you too, Mycroft. You might not want to ‘act on a feeling’, but if you did, I wouldn’t say no. You know... if you were worried about it or something.” He swallowed. He hadn’t meant to say exactly that, but it wasn’t a lie. He liked Mycroft even though most people didn’t quite ‘get it’. 

There was no hesitation, really. They had known each other for a very long time and had been through a lot of shite together over Sherlock. He assumed that Mycroft’s feelings about him had spawned from the times they had tried to save his younger brother. 

The car rolled to a stop, and Gregory looked out the window. They were sitting in front of his flat’s building. 

“I will see you later, Detective Inspector. I’m sure Sherlock will give us cause to see each other again soon. I am glad you’re feeling well now.” He was looking at the other side of the street and ignoring Gregory. 

Gregory sighed and got out, frustrated by the whole situation. He leaned back down into the car. “Goodbye, Myc. I hope you take me up on that offer to talk.” 

Before Mycroft could fire off some smartarse answer, he closed the door behind him and headed toward his flat. 

He hadn’t known when it happened, but it had started to rain somewhere between the facility and the flat. He sighed as he flipped his collar up. His keys got hung on the edge of his pocket and he rolled his eyes as he struggled to free them. Apparently, it just wasn’t his day.

Suddenly, the rain stopped pattering on his hair and he looked up. Black fabric stretched out on small spindly metal spider legs and protected him from the coming storm. He looked behind him and Mycroft had a conflicted look on his face as he stood with the umbrella held aloft. 

“You’ve just gotten well, Gregory. I cannot, in good conscience, leave you to get ill again.” He was looking just to the right of Gregory’s head. “Now, may we enter your building. I fear I have not brought a coat for myself.” 

Gregory arched a brow at him, but he didn’t comment and finally managed to free his keys from his pocket. He let them in and led Mycroft down the short hall to his flat after Mycroft leaned his umbrella in the corner. 

He flipped on the lights and went to drop his bags off in his room before returning to the kitchen to put on a kettle. 

Mycroft was sitting in the chair he had essentially claimed as his own. His long legs were crossed at the knee and he seemed deep in thought as he leaned against the plush back. Again, his finger traced the shape of his lips. 

Gregory put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe, contemplating Mycroft. He really did like Mycroft despite his irritation with him sometimes. Not conventionally handsome, Mycroft didn’t hit any of his conventional points of attraction. However, there were a thousand different ways to be attracted to someone and not all of them had to do with someone’s face. His bearing and the way he was devoted to his family and his country were things that had long since sold Gregory on liking Mycroft. 

He contemplated their time spent together and knew that it wouldn’t end here. Or ever, if he was being honest. Sherlock stirred up too much trouble. 

Once he was down the rabbit hole, he went further into it. He wanted to find that point where he had become fond of Mycroft. He knew it was there somewhere. 

A memory of one of the first times he’d met with Mycroft surfaced. Up until that moment, he’d forgotten all about it. 

They had been outside of a crime scene while Sherlock had done his detecting. He had still been too young and too wired, and the drugs were barely out of his system. He had been so exuberant in his search for the truth that Gregory couldn’t turn him out. 

Mycroft had shown up to check on his younger brother but found that Sherlock had done nothing untoward except annoy the inspectors that were working the scene. He had chosen Gregory to speak with on the subject, and the Inspector had only had good things to say. 

The brief, honest, look of shock on Mycroft’s face...

He sighed. Well, at least that was settled. It was all tied up with Sherlock and his brother’s constant need to protect him, but he could live with it. At least he knew when he had started to appreciate Mycroft as a loving human-being. 

Behind him, the kettle started to whistle, and he turned to collect it. He set everything out on a tray and carried it into the living room. He fixed Mycroft’s the same way he fixed Sherlock’s when he came around. It had seemed to work the last time Mycroft had been here long enough for tea. 

Only when he held out the cup for Mycroft, did the other man move. He took it carefully and pondered it a long moment before he sipped. 

He seemed confounded by the tea. He looked up at Gregory and asked, “How is it that you know how I take my tea, Detective Inspector? I don’t recall us ever sharing a cup before the night I slept here.” 

Gregory shrugged. “I just fixed it how Sherlock takes it. I figure you're brothers and probably have the same pallet when it comes to tea. I took a chance.” 

Mycroft nodded. It was a very mundane answer but a correct assumption. 

“Alright. You said you’re ‘fond’ of me. I know what that means with you and your brother. Sherlock is ‘fond’ of John. So let’s get it out in the open and talk about it. I’m too old for dancing around each other like we don’t know what’s going on.” 

Gregory had to wait a long time before he got an answer, but he didn’t interrupt the quiet. He didn’t push any further. He knew from the fact Mycroft hadn’t bolted that he would get an answer if he was patient. 

Mycroft was very busy studying the swirl of milk in his tea and hoped in vain Gregory would let it go. He knew better though. He had watched Gregory’s over-all patience with Sherlock for years and knew Gregory had the quiet tenacity of a bulldog. 

He thought of the tattoo that swooped its way along Gregory’s ribs, and it slid into place that maybe he wasn’t being foolish. Gregory knew, intimately, what it was like to give everything up to do what he was good at, what would help people. The naked band around his ring finger said just as much. 

Setting his teacup aside, Mycroft turned his eyes to Gregory and found obvious things. He found Gregory’s nicotine addiction in the twitch under his left eye and saw that the scarf that still hung loosely around his neck had been carefully folded by the faint creases. He saw what Sherlock would see. 

Then, he let himself delve deeper. 

Gregory had ink on his fingertips from files, and he had arrived to the car with a bag over his shoulder. Judging by size and weight, a laptop bag.  _ Working while ill; working to stay sane in the quiet humdrum of hospital. _

He examined the expressions that had resided on Gregory’s face at his admission. 

_ Confusion. Shock. Disbelief. Acceptance. Intrigue. _

Nowhere had there been judgment. 

Regardless of it, Mycroft felt a spike of anxiety. He truly was fond of Gregory but what if something  _ did _ happen between them? Would it endanger Sherlock? 

Conflicted, he finally spoke. “You are correct in your deduction that fondness is similar between Sherlock and I. However, neither you nor I can afford such a relationship.” 

Gregory sighed. “Wouldn’t put much strain on me.” 

Mycroft shook his head. “I was referencing my position. I cannot have such a flagrant show of a soft spot, and you cannot be allowed to enter the crossfires of the people I deal with.” 

“Myc, I’m already in their vision because I deal with you  _ and _ Sherlock. Besides, Sherlock is already your soft spot. I have eyes. Don’t pretend like I don’t see what you’re doing.” He rubbed his palms together over his knees. “I’m going to die eventually anyway. I’m not all that worried about how I go as long as I made a difference.” 

Again, Gregory’s honesty felt like a breeze on a hot day; unexpected and oh so pleasant. 

“I already have a price on my head because of what I do. I’m not worried about whatever you’re in.” He shrugged. 

Gregory never thought to be lobbying in favour of a relationship with Mycroft Holmes, but here he was. 

“Gregory, I’m concerned that you do not understand the parameters of a relationship with me,” Mycroft pointed out. 

“That’s kind of the point of the conversation, Myc. You have to tell me.” 

Mycroft sighed. He knew this would be where Gregory would feel it all too much or completely underwhelming. It was why he had avoided it as much as possible over the course of his life. 

“I am going to explain something to you. Save your judgments and questions until I am finished, please. There have only ever been a handful of people privy to this information. While it does not pertain to my position, I would prefer it remain between us.” 

Gregory nodded. Mycroft was being very cagey about whatever information he was about to lay on the table, and Gregory knew when to stop and listen. “Whatever it is, Myc, it won’t leave this room.” 

Mycroft searched his face and found that his pupils were dilated, but his breathing was even and slow, if a bit laboured from the remnants of his illness. 

“I am sure you are aware that there are a broad spectrum of sexualities in the human race.” He didn’t pause for fear of not getting it out. “I fall in the grey area. I have no preference or desire for either gender until I know them as well as I possibly can.” 

Gregory leaned back against the sofa and mulled over the revelation. “So you just aren’t interested in a physical relationship until you get to know them?” he asked for clarification. 

Heat found its way up Mycroft’s collar. “That is correct.” 

“But you like me enough to be ‘fond’ of me?” 

Mycroft sighed, defeated. “Yes.” 

“That’s alright then.” 

Mycroft’s eyes jerked up to look at Gregory to see if there was any mirth or deception. There was none. “What do you mean?” 

Gregory shrugged. “Not everything is about sex. I learned that. I’d rather have someone who gets the fact that I work all the bloody time and chase after a lunatic in a coat for a living.” The last was said with fondness that turned up the corners of his mouth. “I know we won’t see eye-to-eye on everything, but what pair does? I like to get to know people before I sleep with them, Myc. Won’t be much of a hardship on me.” 

The Mask slid into place to protect him while he tried to process. 

“You’re brilliant and work more than I do. I hardly have time to sleep, but you can guarantee I would rather have someone to have around than crawling into bed alone. I get it. I’m far past my loose days. You don’t want to til you’re comfortable? Fine by me.” 

Mycroft felt a shudder in his chest. It felt something like an old factory furnace trying to rattle its way back to life after being left to rust; coughing, smoking, wheezing its way back to the world of the living by nothing more than willpower alone. God only knew when the last time was that it had been taken care of. 

He rubbed at his sternum and let the mask fall. A look of such vulnerability rested there in the pallor of his cheeks and the wander of eyes over every part of Gregory’s face. 

Gregory held out a hand, palm up. It took only a moment for Mycroft to slide his against skin roughened by the handle of a gun. 

“We’ll make it. Alright?” 

Mycroft could only nod. 

 


	7. Ugly Christmas Jumpers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a meltdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a bit nervous about this chapter so please let me know what you think.

Blue lights refracted through the rain and cast the whole street in an eerie light. No sirens sounded though. They would do no one any good. The body of the victim was already being cased and photographed. 

Lestrade was talking to a sergeant about what needed to be done when a taxi stopped just outside the police line. Two figures emerged, and he sighed in relief. 

“Looks like your favourite hound is here, Inspector,” she said from beside him. 

Lestrade snorted. “Not hardly.” 

He waited where he was and watched as Sherlock flipped up his collar against the rain and John put up the hood on his. 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed further the closer he got to Lestrade. He swore when they were within a metre of each other. “No. He’s not getting you, too. Where is he?” 

John looked between them, bewildered. “What? Sherlock? What’s going on?” 

Sherlock pointed an accusing finger at Lestrade. It moved as he explained while Lestrade just stood there and let it happen. “Umbrella. Scarf. Coat. Jeans that are new. When does Lestrade buy anything for himself? Mycroft’s gotten his hooks into  _ my _ Inspector.” He turned back to Lestrade. “Where is he?” 

Lestrade suppressed a smile and pointed to the street behind him where a black car waited inside the police line. 

Sherlock stormed off, and John looked as confused as ever. That is, until he got an actual look at what Sherlock had been so irate about. 

His eyebrows rose and Lestrade just shrugged. “Giving it a go.” 

“With Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes? Ice Man? And you? When did that happen?” John was shifting quickly from incredulous to accepting. 

“Day I got out of hospital. Few weeks.” 

“Huh...” John’s eyes shifted past him to where Sherlock was approaching the black car. 

They stood together under Mycroft’s umbrella and watched as Sherlock argued with an open window before stalking back towards them. 

“Haven’t seen him sulk that hard in a good while,” John laughed. 

Lestrade smiled. “Told him yet?” 

John looked over. “Told him what?” 

Lestrade gave a look to the car parked down the street. “That you’re... fond of him.” 

John visibly paled, even in only the flashing blues and street lamps. “What?” he croaked. 

Lestrade shook his head. “That’s what I thought.” 

John was still staring at him in astonishment when Sherlock descended on them and hauled him away toward the crime scene. 

Lestrade watched with a bemused smile as they went toward the building. The rain began to slack off, and he turned to the other end of the street. 

Mycroft’s window rolled down as he approached. 

Leaning down, he put his elbow on the seal. “What did Sherlock say?” 

Myc rolled his eyes. “He was concerned that I was stealing his Inspector.” He glanced away. “I explained that you are the goldfish I have chosen.” 

Gregory arched a brow. “You wrote that on the note with the umbrella. What did you mean?”

Myc actually looked uncomfortable. He was, however, trying to be as upfront and honest with Gregory as his occupation would allow. “I once explained to Sherlock that I felt as though I live in a world full of ordinary goldfish.” 

“And I’m your goldfish?” Gregory asked. 

Myc might have squirmed had he been eight years old. “Indeed. I am sorry for the comparison. I know it isn’t flattering, but I knew Sherlock would understand it better.” 

Lestrade shrugged. “He’s a bit dense when it comes to things like this. I get it.” 

Mycroft looked back up. “You do?” 

“‘Course. He’s a tosser, but sometimes he just doesn’t get it,” Gregory said as he reached into his pocket. “Gonna be a while. Go ahead and stay at my flat.” He held out his keyring. “I know you have work to do.” 

Mycroft stared at the keys like they were a bomb before taking them from Gregory, folding them against his palm. “Alright.” 

Gregory offered a small smile. “Your papers are still there and while your chauffeur may be able to break down the door, I would rather not replace it.” 

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “Indeed.” 

“Go do your thing, and I’ll do mine.” Gregory straightened and patted the hood of the car. “See you when I get in.” 

Without another word, Gregory turned and strolled back up the street, umbrella turning over his shoulder like a parasol. 

Mycroft watched as he disappeared into the building before taking a look at the keys cutting into his palm. 

Just a keyring with a few keys and an old keychain for a rock band Gregory had mentioned a few weeks ago. It had been one of their longer conversations about any and everything. 

It meant more to him than it should have. 

That didn’t stop him from telling his driver to take him back to the flat he and Gregory had left together not all that long ago. 

 

It was strange; standing in front of the door with the proper key chosen. He was alone and would remain so in someone else’s flat. This wasn’t the first time he would be alone in someone else’s flat. However, this wasn’t a sting and he had permission to be here. 

He took a breath and unlocked it. Everything was just as they had left it. Papers and stacks of files filled the surface of the breakfast table that wasn’t occupied by the teapot. Their work overlapped and mingled but it made perfect sense to them. 

The quiet had stretched between them as they worked in the same space, but neither had felt the strain to say something. They both knew they could and that was enough.

Mycroft felt as though he might have stepped through a door to a different dimension a few weeks ago. He constantly felt as though the circumstances couldn’t have produced this result, but he kept waking up in it, and there was no contesting it. 

He and Gregory had grown to spend at least a few hours every few days talking or working together. It had become a nice pattern. It was a solid place where he could lay a marker in his life. 

He found himself glad of it instead of filled with the awful dread he had feared. 

Sherlock was obviously miffed about the arrangement, but he would soon find that Mycroft would not relinquish it just because his brother was jealous about the Inspector’s time. 

For whatever reason, Gregory had given him a chance, and he was not keen to squander it. 

 

Watery sunlight came in through curtains that had been bleached by its brutal cousin, the summer sun, and puddled on the floor. 

December had descended with the slushy mix of snow and rain that seemed persistent about its need to drench and then freeze socks. 

Gregory didn’t have time to worry with it though. He had a triple homicide on his hands and a perpetually petulant Sherlock Holmes refusing to help him now that he had ‘a new Holmes to play with’. He’d had to restrain himself from punching Sherlock when he’d said that.

Mycroft was brilliant and had the patience of a saint when it suited him. Sherlock, on the other hand, was rash and brilliant. Scary combination. 

Yeah. He much prefered Mycroft. 

He shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. Why was he even comparing them? It didn’t matter. 

Instead of working on the case, he sat back and stared at the ceiling, thinking of what he’d told Mycroft when they had first discussed giving a relationship a try. Sex was off the table for the moment and that didn’t bother him. He hadn’t ever thought of Mycroft that way anyhow so it was no real loss for him. 

The consideration that, if this worked out like they wanted it to, he would eventually be having sex with Mycroft should have probably bothered him a bit more. Instead, he had just shrugged and accepted it. 

Blokes had never really been his thing even though he had thought about it on more than one occasion and had possibly done a few things. He couldn’t remember though. There had been a lot of drugs involved when he’d been...  _ loose _ during his days as a youth in the underbelly of London. 

He jumped when a knock came from the door. His brow furrowed and he got up, going to answer it. 

When he pulled it open, Mycroft was standing on the other side with a parcel under one arm, leaning on the umbrella with the other. 

“Myc? What are you doing here? I thought you were in... Well, not here, anyhow.” He stepped back and let the older Holmes through the door. 

“I was. However, I was alerted to a family ‘emergency’.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Everything alright?” Concern leaked into his voice. He knew how the brothers felt about their parents, despite their arguments to the contrary. 

“Everyone is fine. Mummy decided to call me while I was in Istanbul and demand I come home for some sense forsaken reason. This was in my home when I arrived.” He put the box on the table and Gregory leaned down to open it. 

He laughed at what he found. “Oh God. A Christmas jumper?” he asked as he picked it up. 

“There is another in the box,” Mycroft pointed out. 

Gregory looked down and saw that there was, in fact, an identical jumper lying at the bottom of the box. What had started out as a funny moment descended into something possibly terrifying. 

“Mummy wants us to come to Christmas at the Cottage. I have no idea why she sent me matching jumpers in such an atrocious pattern, but I have an inkling that Sherlock had something to do with it.” He was sat on the edge of his chair and looked set upon. 

“So... I’m coming to your parents’ cottage for Christmas? I didn’t think you even celebrated it,” Greg said as he sat down, the jumper falling to his lap. 

“I don’t. Mummy, however, adores it. Despite all of my arguments against it, it is her favourite holiday. You are not bound to come. I thought I would extend the invitation because otherwise, I would be alone with them.” He started tracing his mouth, and Gregory knew he was nervous. 

He shrugged after a moment of consideration. “Don’t see why not. I’ll have to meet them eventually, anyway.” 

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. Apparently, that hadn’t been the answer he’d anticipated. “What?” 

Gregory rolled his eyes. “Despite my rugged exterior, I actually do enjoy family holidays.” He gave Mycroft that smile he reserved for when he was being a smartarse. “And we’re together so I’m going to meet them eventually. Unless you don’t want me to...?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am not ashamed of what is between us. I just...” That flush crept up his collar again, and Gregory caught it. 

“Didn’t know if I was ready to be ‘out’?” Gregory prodded. 

Mycroft looked down and nodded. “Yes.” 

“I was never really  _ in _ , considering, but thanks for caring,” Gregory said, his face sincere. 

Mycroft nodded again, not knowing how to respond. 

 

“Oh Myc! It’s so good to see you!” 

A woman with silvery hair coiffed on top of her head swooped down upon them as they stepped out of the car toward the Cottage. Gregory assumed this was Mummy when Mycroft tolerated her hug while an older man wandered along behind her. 

Before he quite knew what was happening, Gregory was hauled into a hug that nearly squeezed the air from his lungs. 

“Mummy, please let him go.” Mycroft’s voice was cool, but it held a bit of unease. 

Gregory didn’t object. He hugged Mrs Holmes back and said, “It’s my pleasure to meet you. Thank you for inviting me on your holiday.” 

Mummy finally stepped back from him. “We’re always telling the boys to bring their friends ‘round. John always comes with Sherlock. I’m just glad Myc has found someone to bring.” 

Gregory put his hands in his pockets, managing to look ten years old and like a Hollywood bad boy at the same time in his leather coat and ruffled hair. “So am I, ma’am.” He glanced to Mycroft and saw that the mask was up as he talked to his father. 

“Let’s get you and Myc settled, then.” She turned to the Holmes men. “Come on, then. Into the Cottage. I don’t want to burn my biscuits.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes but rejoined with Gregory to collect their bags from the boot. 

His parents returned to the Cottage where smoke spiralled lazily up toward the overcast sky from stone chimneys and ivy grew heavily on the walls. 

“I apologize in advance about the next seventy-two hours,” Mycroft said as they situated bags on their shoulders. 

Gregory shrugged. “They’re parents. It is their job to embarrass you in front of people you care about. Besides, be thankful they still can. It’s an empty canyon when they’re gone.” 

Mycroft stopped fidgeting and looked at Gregory then. He studied him a long moment. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.” 

Gregory smiled. “Thought you knew everything.” He shook his head. “Myc, it’s fine. Car crash when I was twenty. I didn’t mean to bring the mood down. I just meant you shouldn’t take them for granted.” He placed a hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck. “Don’t worry about it.” 

He released him and led the trek into the house. 

Mycroft could still feel the heat of his hand burning his skin as he followed. 

 

Sherlock and John arrived in a whirlwind of swearing from John. Sherlock promptly started pouting when he saw Gregory being doted on by Mummy. Though, it diminished when John got the same treatment. 

It was an oddity to see the kitchen so full. Mycroft was visibly annoyed for the most part, but he was sat at the table with his laptop while John and Gregory got to know their parents better. Sherlock left to wander through the garden with Mr Holmes when Siger demanded time with a very quiet authority that Gregory wasn’t sure he even noticed. 

“So, Gregory, Sherlock tells us you’re an Inspector? Scotland Yard?” Mrs Holmes asked. 

“Yes, ma’am. Sherlock is a fantastic help--”

“I know he is, dear. I’m asking about you.” She looked at him with the same strangely coloured eyes as Sherlock and smiled in a way that he knew which of the parents was cleverer. 

He felt a flush creep up the back of his neck and saw John was hiding in his teacup to avoid laughing. No help there. Mycroft, however, had grown very still at the table. 

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’m an Inspector. Been a copper for...” He had to count back. “Fifteen years.” 

She considered it as she poured punch into a bowl. “Well, I think it’s wonderful what you did for Sherlock.” 

He smiled. “Yeah. He’s done a lot for me too.” 

She shook her head. “You two,” she gestured to John. “You two saved my son. Mycroft likes to pretend that I didn’t know what was going on, but it is hard to ignore the fact that your son is in rehab.”

Gregory swallowed and John fidgeted. 

“You helped him get back to normal and helped him keep out of trouble. So as far as I see, I owe you two a great deal more than just a Christmas dinner.” 

She wiped her hands on a flannel and came around the counter to stand between them, hugging them both to her. She kissed their hair as they looked at each other like lost sons whom had been adopted into a family. 

Gregory glanced to the side and saw Mycroft staring down at his laptop with a look on his face like he had nearly cried, but he had held it down. 

It took a few moments before they were released and she went back to making her punch and biscuits. Everyone relaxed again, but Mycroft still looked like he might collapse in on himself. 

John and Mrs Holmes started chattering, and Gregory got up to go to Mycroft. 

He looked up as Gregory approached and arched an eyebrow in a haughty jaunt that was meant to be offputting. 

“Might I have a word?”

Mycroft looked annoyed, but he nodded and they walked to the sitting room; Gregory closing the door behind them. 

When they were alone, he turned and looked at Mycroft whom had taken on the face of someone who didn’t want to be anywhere near this particular conversation. 

“Are you alright?” Mycroft opened his mouth, and Gregory held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t lie to me. It won’t do any good. I’m no Sherlock, but I am a detective and I know lies when I hear them.”

Mycroft stared at him and then sighed, the weight on his shoulders making him sag slightly. “Fine. No, I am not ‘alright’, but I cannot admit that here.” 

Gregory’s brow furrowed. “Why not? They’re your family.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, they are, but I have been the only one to hold this all together.”

Gregory snorted in annoyed amusement. “Mycroft, they’re all adults. They can handle it. You shouldn’t have to carry that alone.” 

Mycroft made a face. “Do not push sentiment on me.” 

It was Gregory’s turn to roll his eyes. “And don’t push me away. That’s why I’m here, remember? We’re trying this out and if we don’t talk, then it won’t work.” 

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment. “Fine. I am afraid that I have bollocksed everything up and that I won’t be able to fix it next time Sherlock does something... unadvisable.”

“You are the best brother anyone could ever ask for, Myc.” Gregory’s face grew heartbroken and before he thought better of it, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. 

Mycroft froze and was completely stiff under his hold at first but slowly started to relax. Eventually, he grew brave enough to wrap his own around Gregory’s waist. 

Against his shoulder, Gregory said, “You’re not alone in taking care of your idiot brother anymore. I know he does some things you can’t fix, but it’s not your problem.” 

Mycroft said nothing but his hold on Gregory grew tighter, and he let his head fall to the other’s shoulder. 

Gregory knew Mycroft didn’t like being touched so this was something of a gift for him. The amount of trust in one action was astounding, but it meant everything. 

They stayed that way a long time until finally, Mycroft pulled away. He avoided Gregory’s eyes but said, “Thank you for tolerating my moment of weakness.” 

Gregory sighed but didn’t comment on the obvious thing Mycroft was missing. “Any time. And I mean that.” 

Mycroft nodded and smoothed his hand over his jumper to get rid of imaginary creases. “Yes, well... I may take you up on the offer from time to time.” 

Gregory suppressed his smile and shrugged. “Any time.” 

 

“Mummy, these jumpers are atrocious,” Sherlock complained. 

It was probably the first time Gregory had ever seen him in a jumper and of course it was one of the awful Christmas jumpers Mrs Holmes had picked out. It made him smile to know that this was going to be immortalized in photographs.

“That’s the point, Sherlock. Stop fidgeting and stand still so we can have a photograph.” 

She affixed the camera to the tripod and hurried over to Siger and sat on his lap. All four of the boys were behind them where they were sat on a winged chair. 

Everyone got into place and waited for the camera to flash. 

After the blinding light went off, everyone shifted and started to drift apart. Mrs Holmes went to retrieve the camera and Sherlock and John seemed to drift apart from everyone else together. Gregory and Mycroft stayed together and wandered to the side. 

“I still cannot believe that she made us wear these awful things,” Mycroft said as he absently picked at the jumper. 

Gregory smiled. “I can. They’re awful, but she wanted it to look like one of those big family photos where everyone wears the same colour or something. She just didn’t want anyone to take it too seriously, I think.” 

Mycroft made a noise in derision. “No one would ever take these jumpers seriously.” 

Gregory laughed. “You’re probably right.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Mycroft looked at him. “Mummy did that.” 

Gregory rolled his eyes. “Which I wouldn’t have known had you not invited me.” 

Mycroft’s flush crept up his neck again and was vibrant against the garish red of the jumper. “Yes, well... you’re welcome, I suppose.” 

Gregory couldn’t help but smile and bump their shoulders together as they watched John and Sherlock circle around each other from across the room. 

“When do you think John will tell him?” he asked quietly. 

Mycroft glanced over at him but returned his attention to his brother and the doctor. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen Sherlock act quite that way around anyone. It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure.” 

“Not going to give me the exact moment when their fate will come to a head?” Gregory prodded, still smiling. 

Mycroft huffed. “No. Even I don’t know. It could be ten minutes or it could be ten years.” 

Gregory nodded. “True enough. You know I’m only ribbing you, right?” Again, he asked it quietly. 

Mycroft looked at him with those icy eyes of his, but they weren’t glacially cold. “Yes, Gregory, I know.” 

They stood together for a few more moments before Mycroft spoke again. “I am thankful you are here. You have made this Christmas bearable.” 

Gregory smiled. “So am I.” 

 

Gregory dressed down into the plaid pyjamas he had remembered to pack. Emerging from the loo, he carried his day clothes to the room where he and Mycroft had deposited their things earlier. Packing them away, he heard someone come in behind him and glanced over his shoulder.

Mycroft was standing in the doorway watching him as he went about his routine. He looked so blank that Gregory thought something might have happened. 

“Alright, Myc?” he asked, straightening and turning toward him. 

Mycroft nodded. “Fine. I was only considering the fact that you are the only person I have ever brought here.” 

“To the Cottage?” he asked, mildly surprised. 

“To my old room,” Mycroft clarified. He looked uncomfortable but had been the one to bring it up. 

Gregory was dumbfounded and looked around them. His eyes lingered on the books on the shelves and the green tones the room was dressed in. He hadn’t even noticed it earlier in all of the excitement. “Oh.” 

“Indeed. Though, I will gather my things and go to the guest room.” He stepped in and started to collect his bag. 

Gregory’s palm covering his on the handle made him stop and look over at the Inspector. 

“You don’t have to. There’s plenty of room in here.” Gregory was nervous as he said it, but he swallowed it. It was time that they tried out sleeping in the same bed. 

They stood close together, and Gregory kept hold of Mycroft’s hand even as he let go of the bag. 

Mycroft was searching his face for answers to questions he would never voice. He found quiet hopefulness, and Gregory readying himself to be rejected. Gregory really did want him to stay and wasn’t just being polite. 

“If you insist.” He didn’t understand Gregory’s want to keep him in the room, but he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He blinked, realizing that he never would have done so a few months ago. 

Gregory looked mildly surprised at the easiness of convincing Mycroft to stay with him. “Good.” 

Everything settled, he turned back to his bag, his fingers sliding off of Mycroft’s. He finished tucking his clothes away, wanting to give Mycroft a chance to settle without him watching. 

It took a few moments, but eventually, Mycroft moved to collect his bag again. He disappeared into the loo to presumably change. 

Gregory slid under the dark green duvet and sat against the headboard. He fiddled with his phone to occupy his nervous hands. He checked his mail and set out answers to work e-mails. It made him feel better to do something so familiar. 

He really couldn’t believe he was so nervous about sleeping in the same bed with someone considering he had been married for a while. Despite his nerves, he hoped this turned out well. He genuinely liked Mycroft on a lot of levels. The more he got to know him, the better he liked him. He liked the way he was with his family and how dedicated he was to Sherlock. His intelligence was on a level all its own. More than anything, he respected Mycroft and he knew, with Mycroft’s personality, he wouldn’t get hurt. 

Instinctively, he knew he would be safe with Mycroft. The realization made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t hide away from it. After everything with Shelley, it was more than a little bit of a relief. 

A few moments later, Mycroft returned and was sat on the edge of the bed in soft cotton pyjamas the colour summer night sky. He seemed to be considering the room he had grown up in while he contemplated something that weighed more heavily on his mind. 

Gregory waited a considerable amount of time, listening to the rest of the house settle down for the rest of the night. He could hear Sherlock and John talking through the wall. The elder Holmes couple had been in bed for a while. 

After what seemed like ages had passed, Gregory laid his torso across the pillows and looked up at Mycroft from the side. "You alright?" he asked again.

Mycroft seemed to not hear him or he was openly ignoring him. 

Gregory rolled his eyes and prodded him in the side. That gained him a glare. 

He asked the same question again and Mycroft's expression loosened to a scowl. 

"I'm fine, Gregory." He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I am thinking over things." 

Gregory nodded and propped his face up in his palm as his head was growing heavy from the angle. "Like what?" 

He was quiet for a long moment but finally answered. "I have hit the point where I find you physically appealing, Gregory."   

Gregory slid closer and raised up on an elbow. "Yeah?" 

Mycroft looked over at him and nodded. 

Gregory smile slightly. It was sooner than he had expected, but he wasn’t complaining.

Mycroft was flushed up the back of his neck. "It has been a very very long time since I've had this same feeling." 

Gregory shook his head. "If you thought I would be upset, I'm not. Far from it." 

Mycroft studied him for a long moment, looking for something in the way his eyes held his own or the way his pupils were dilated as he looked up at him. Before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned down and pressed their lips together. He felt Gregory stiffen with surprise. He readed himself to pull away and apologize.

Gregory’s hand on the back of his head stopped him. It held him there as Gregory’s mouth moved against his. 

Shifting slightly, more confident in his position, he put a hand on the mattress beside Gregory’s ribs. He could feel the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He felt Gregory’s fingers trace along the space under his ear and nearly had to pull away because of the shiver that almost skittered its way down his spine. 

The Inspector moved on, though, brushing his thumb along his jaw. 

A moment later, he pulled away and they slowly opened their lashes to look at each other. 

Gregory looked up at Mycroft and it seemed like the ice in his eyes had melted away to reveal the cobalt beneath. It was strange being this close to Mycroft and at the same time, he was glad of it. 

Because he could, he leaned up and pressed their mouths together again briefly, feeling the warmth of the supposed “Ice Man”. He needed to talk to John about that. 

When Mycroft pulled away again, he had a small smile on his face. “I believe we should sleep. Mummy does love to wake us early on Christmas.” 

Gregory smiled in return. “Yeah. Alright.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a sidenote, I would like to point out that I have commissions open. I will have information up on my tumblr @ 221bbitch.tumblr.com and on my profile here. <3


	8. Three-Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Growing together is important. As is punching one's brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of a giggle writing this one. Enjoy~

He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and felt his blood-pressure rise. 

Ten years of dealing with Sherlock Holmes and today was the day Gregory Lestrade would murder him. He was going to throttle the very breath out of him. Violently. Without an ounce of remorse. 

As it was, he could do nothing more than hold a pad of gauze against his side where he was still bleeding all over everything. An emergency tech was busy collecting the things she needed to stitch him up as he sat shirtless on a gurney in the back of an ambulance. 

The tech came at him with a needle in a syringe. “I’m going to numb it.” 

He nodded and peeled the gauze away from the rend in his side. She stuck him a few times, and it went quiet in the pain department.

She moved one of the monitors that was on a small stand and told him to rest his arm on it so it didn’t get in the way of her stitching. He obliged and tried to keep as still as possible when she started to put her needle and thread to work. 

Halfway through, Gregory heard a familiar voice come from outside the ambulance. “What happened?” 

He looked over and spotted Mycroft standing at the rear bumper. The mask was in place, but his body was stiff under the clean edges of his suit. 

“Your brother is a bloody moron. I got sliced up by a lunatic while he was busy poking at a body. Would’ve died if I hadn’t been paying attention.” 

Mycroft’s brow furrowed deeply, and he studied the wound in Gregory’s side. He apparently garnered all of the information he needed. “I will return momentarily. Your caretaker seems to have the current situation under control.” 

Gregory wasn’t sure where Mycroft intended to go, but he nodded anyway. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Mycroft said nothing else as he turned and headed off toward the scene. 

 

The tech dressed his stitches with gauze and an antibiotic with directions on how to care for it since he flat out refused to go to hospital. 

He remained on the gurney until he heard an alarmed shout. Confused, he got out of the ambulance and grimaced when the hop down jarred his side. 

Off from the main gathering of people, he saw Sherlock sprawled out on the pavement with a stunned expression. Blood came from his nose in a crimson slash across his pale skin. 

No surprise someone had punched him. The more surprising thing was that they hadn’t done it before. 

Scratch that.

Mycroft was the only person standing within five metres of Sherlock. His face was impassive, but the gobsmacked expression on Sherlock’s told the story. 

Gregory rolled his eyes and walked over slowly. He stood next to Mycroft and asked, “Was that necessary?” 

Mycroft glanced over. “You are the one who told me to not let him get away with mistakes any longer.” 

Sherlock rose and fumed at Mycroft before storming away with a sleeve held up to his nose. He shouted for John as he went.

Gregory chuckled. “Not exactly what I meant, but thanks for the defense.” 

Mycroft paused, not sure if he was being made fun of or not. After a moment, he gave a small nod. “To be completely honest, I’ve wanted to do it for a while anyway.” 

Gregory smiled. “Thanks anyway.” 

Mycroft looked over at him and his expression grew concerned. He pulled off his coat and offered it to Gregory. “Take this.” 

Gregory waved him off, taking a step back. “I have blood all over me.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You are acting like my tailor hasn’t seen it before.” He moved and draped the wool over Gregory’s shoulders against the cool spring air. “I believe you have earned a day of rest, Inspector.” 

Gregory rolled his eyes. “You’re fussing again.” 

Mycroft answered with a haughty look. “You have ten minutes to clear your affairs. After, I am taking you home so you may properly rest.” 

“I’m fine, Myc.” 

Mycroft stepped close so their faces were mere centimeters apart. “Do not make me order you, Gregory.” 

Gregory felt a flutter near his navel, but he gave Mycroft a smarmy smile. “Try it.” 

Before Mycroft could say anything further, he turned away and headed toward one of his officers. 

Mycroft stood in mildly amazed confusion. It wasn’t often someone challenged him. Usually, orders were met with immediate co-operation. 

Gregory was breaking all kinds of rules lately. 

 

True to his word, ten minutes later, Mycroft showed up at the Detective Inspector’s elbow. Anthea was behind him tapping away on her phone. 

“Time to go, Gregory.” 

Gregory rolled his eyes but kept talking to the coroner, giving her instructions. 

As soon as he finished talking, Mycroft guided him away to the usual black car. He settled in the back seat with a hand over his ribs. Sitting had pulled the stitches and he blinked back unwarranted tears at the violent burn. Unfortunately, the numbing agent wasn’t keeping up with the amount of adrenaline he had been pumping through. It was wearing off faster than normal. 

Mycroft ignored his pained expression, turning to Anthea. 

“You will debrief me in the morning. I expect that the President of Turkey will want to be in contact again. Soon. Keep that line open. Otherwise, everything except matters as previously discussed will be deviated until I contact you again.” 

She gave a slight nod, still scrolling and typing. 

When they reached a safer part of London, the car stopped and she got out without looking back. 

Gregory craned around and watched as she was swallowed by another, identical, black car. At least she wouldn’t be out and alone. 

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked. 

Gregory turned to look at him. He seemed concerned and that alone was endearing. “Fine. Still mostly numb,” he lied.

Mycroft nodded. “Very well.” He paused. “Thank you for taking care of Sherlock. He does have a tendency to become--” 

“Myc,” Gregory cut in. “As much as I love him, I  _ really _ don’t want to be talking about your brother. This might start bleeding if my blood pressure goes up too high.” 

Mycroft shut his mouth but nodded. “That is a wise assumption.” He rubbed over his face. “I will be taking you back to my place of residence. It seems only wise to not leave you unattended.” 

Gregory blinked at him. “What?” There was no possible way he had heard that correctly. Maybe he’d gotten blood in his ear. 

Mycroft sighed. “Your hearing was not damaged. I am in need...” He paused as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “I need time to myself. I have had a pile of worries on my mind tantamount to a crippling injury. So please let me believe I am going to spend the next few days in my home with you because you have suffered injury.” 

Gregory shook his head. “Fine. Be a mother hen. I need to get a few things first.” 

It was such an oddity to see Mycroft so close to hitting a wall at full-speed. He had no doubt that an imminent crash was what was happening here. Mycroft was burning out. He needed time to recharge and Gregory was willing to give him the out. 

“--on the way,” Mycroft said. 

“Didn’t catch that.” 

Mycroft looked annoyed. “I said we will stop on the way so you may gather your things.” 

Gregory let his head loll against the headrest. “Alright.” 

 

Enough kit to last a few days and a quick wash up later, Gregory emerged from his building dressed in the jeans Mycroft had given him and his favourite jacket with a slate coloured shirt underneath. Mycroft’s coat was folded over his arm and he had his pack on his back again. 

He looked positively...

Mycroft shook his head to dislodge the thought, not wanting to know where that errant thought was going. Gregory was, after all, injured. 

He did wonder, however, how the detective would react when he saw where he lived. Probably in awe a bit. 

Though, only time would tell. 

 

“Nice place,” Gregory said as they emerged from the line of trees that protected the property. 

_ Anti-climax _ , Mycroft thought. 

If he was being honest with himself, he had been hoping to get some kind of reaction out of Gregory. 

Since when did he feel the need to  _ impress _ people? 

The pea gravel in the circle drive popped under the tires as the car pulled around. The driver got out and pulled Gregory’s door open for him.

He got out and looked up at the three story manse that stood silent vigil in the dark. The lights were on in the lower levels, but the rest of the windows were dark except for the glitter of the headlights bouncing back out.

As they walked up the shallow cobbled steps, light spilled out over them as someone opened the front door.

Gregory blinked in the new brightness and found the silhouette of a small, portly woman with her hair piled up on the crown of her head.

“Hello, Mr Holmes.”

“Good evening, Victoria. Would you be so kind as to prepare a room for Mr Lestrade? He will be staying with us for some time,” Mycroft asked as they took off their coats.

She nodded and held out her hands for their coats. “Of course, Mr Holmes. Have you eaten?”

“I have.” He looked to Gregory, an eyebrow raised in question.

“I’m fine. Thanks,” he answered. He hadn’t ever had anyone wait on him before.

“That will be all for the moment, Victoria. Thank you,” Mycroft gave her a smile that didn’t seem strained for once, and Gregory wondered at it.

“Of course, Mr Holmes. I’ll be getting that room ready if you need me.” She went off to the right with their coats, leaving them alone.

Discounting the times he’d been put in hospital, Gregory hadn’t ever had anyone wait on him before. It was disconcerting to say the least. He wasn’t quite sure what to do except follow Mycroft.

He looked around them and found artwork that was tastefully hung around the hall. A staircase artfully swept up to the second and third floors at the other end. Five doorways led off and Mycroft had disappeared off into the first on the left.

A sitting room awaited them. Mycroft was already at a wet bar in the corner pouring a pair of cognacs into crystal tumblers. A hearth sat on the outer wall, taking up a wide expanse. More paintings littered the walls and a large globe that looked very old sat in the corner on a wooden orbital. Spindly furniture that looked too fragile to actually sit on was sat in front of the hearth.

“You have a beautiful home, Mycroft,” he found himself saying. He didn’t want his previous comment to seem unappreciative, and Mycroft deserved to know what he really thought.

Mycroft said nothing until he turned and handed a tumbler to Gregory. “Thank you.” His eyes flicked down to Gregory’s side. “Are you alright?”

Gregory looked down and noticed he was holding the place where the stitches were holding him together. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He pulled his hand away.

The ice in Mycroft’s glass tinkled together as he took a drink. “Please let me know if that changes. I have a physician on staff that can be here within the hour.”

Gregory shook his head. “Of course you do.” He let his glass rest near his thigh and stepped forward into Mycroft’s space. “Thank you for taking care of me, Myc.” He raised a hand and placed it on the back of Mycroft’s neck, pulling him down to kiss him.

He felt the usual hesitation from Mycroft but was patient. He was eventually rewarded with Mycroft’s response. A hand moved first to his waist and then slid up to where the bandage covered his ribs. The touch was light and warm.

Mycroft pulled back slightly after a moment and rested their foreheads together. His lashes were still closed as they breathed in the same space.

Gregory couldn’t help the small smile that curved the corners of his own mouth as he just let Mycroft process whatever it was he was having issues with. He let his own eyes fall closed, and they stood there in the quiet.

Mycroft could feel Gregory’s ribs expand and contract under his palm as he breathed slowly. He was calm and waiting patiently. Mycroft appreciated that more than he could articulate.

Memories flashed by like photographs of Sherlock lying in bolthole after bolthole with needle marks and straps tied around his arms. He knew the panic that set in every time. It was a crippling pain that made the breath seize in his lungs.

He had felt the same pain in his chest when he had seen Gregory in the back of the ambulance with blood spilling down his side as the attendant had been busy sewing him up.

It had led to him punching Sherlock because emotions worked in a horrible domino effect. He so rarely gave into irrationality, but there were times when even he couldn’t contain them.

Gregory was right when he had said that Sherlock shouldn’t be allowed to blindly give into his impulses with no repercussions. Unfortunately, Gregory had been the one that had to suffer before he saw the truth in the statement.

“I am sorry,” he finally said.

Neither of them moved, but Gregory could feel the way Mycroft was turning to stone again under his fingers.

Gregory rubbed his thumb in circles on the back of Mycroft’s neck and tilted his head to kiss him again. He nipped his lip in retaliation for feeling sorry for him and tasted the cognac on him. Mycroft made a noise in surprise. “Stop apologizing to me. It was Sherlock’s fault. Not yours.”

He pulled back enough that he could look at him.

Mycroft’s eyes had gone that same colour as Sherlock’s, a teal so mottled with stardust that Gregory barely knew where to look.

“Your brother is a git. We both know this. It really wasn’t even Sherlock’s fault either. He was being him and doing what he does. That’s why I was there. I was watching over him. I did my job so he could do his.”

Mycroft studied his face and saw the sincerity in his eyes. “Yes. Alright.” He seemed annoyed to be conceding to Gregory, but there was not much else he could do given the circumstances.

Gregory gave him a bit of a smile and stepped back. “Good.” He sipped at his drink finally, the condensation sliding down his wrist when it dropped off the tumbler. He had no idea what year it was and didn’t care. It tasted fantastic and was cold from the ice that had been swimming in it while he was busy comforting Mycroft.

His expression must have tattled on him.

“I take it you enjoy the cognac,” Mycroft said with a smile.

Gregory laughed lightly. “Yeah. Probably the best I’ve had.”

Radiating pain woke Gregory from a dead sleep as he found himself in a different position. He groaned. “Must have pulled the stitches,” he muttered.

“Hmm?” a voice said somewhere around the region of his chest.

He let himself smile through the pain. Mycroft had his face pressed against the fabric of his t-shirt and arms firmly held around his hips.

“Pulled the stitches,” he said a little louder.

Mycroft lifted his head in the half-light of early morning. “You okay?” His voice was warm with sleep, and he wasn’t as articulate as usual.

Gregory nodded. “Fine. Just moved wrong in my sleep.” He had no idea how they had ended up cuddling. They had begun on their own sides of Mycroft’s bed, but they had gravitated toward each other during the night.

Mycroft’s arms tightened around his hips and pulled him closer while he pressed his face back into his chest.

He smiled in the safety of the darkness and let his hand stray to Mycroft’s neck the knead at the tenseness that always rested there. The gentle pressure elicited a noise from Mycroft. He rubbed his face against his chest before falling still. Easy breathing against his sternum let Gregory know that he had fallen back asleep. 

He kept kneading and contemplated everything that had happened recently. He couldn’t help but feel like he’d been given a second chance to get it right. And this time he had a partner that understood his dedication to his work and everything else in his life. 

He let himself smile and relax again before letting sleep overcome him again. 

 

A pattern developed between them in the next few days. They would sleep together, Gregory would wake earlier, Victoria would make them breakfast despite objections from Gregory, and Mycroft had a tendency to wander in later with sleepy eyes. Gregory worked on his cases in the mornings and made phone calls that couldn’t wait. Early afternoon brought with it a plethora of possibilities. 

Gregory was sat at a dining table that could seat twenty with all of his papers spread out, laptop glowing up at him, when Mycroft came in wearing a jumper in a particularly fetching shade of teal and jeans. 

“I have some things to attend to in London. Would you care to come with me?” Mycroft asked, hands in his pockets. It was a rare thing to see him looking so  _ normal _ , but Gregory wasn’t complaining. 

He stretched carefully. “I could do with getting out of here for a while. Not that I don’t like it here, but being stuck inside all the time just doesn’t sit well with me.” 

Mycroft nodded. “I feel the same. Please do get dressed. We will leave when you are ready.” He turned to leave but Gregory couldn’t just let him go. 

Not so easily anyway. 

“Hey.” Mycroft turned back with a raised eyebrow. “C’mere.” 

Mycroft looked confused but crossed to where Gregory was sitting. When he was within touching distance, Gregory reached up and pulled him down by the front of his jumper. On the way down, Mycroft rolled his eyes, but his ears were pink. 

Gregory wasn’t sure why he insisted on kissing Mycroft whenever he got a chance, but who was he to deny the urge? Mycroft letting him was a big part to why he did it so often. 

Eventually, Mycroft straightened, flushed to his collar. “Whenever you are ready, Gregory.” 

Without a further word, he left, leaving Gregory with a self-satisfied smile on his face. 

 

Errands. Mycroft Holmes was doing errands like a normal human-being and driving his own car. 

Gregory was physically uncomfortable with all of it because of how bloody  _ strange _ it was. He was accustomed to the mystery of everything and the tightly-wound image Mycroft presented to the rest of the world despite snuggling in a big bed every night. 

Living with him for the better part of a week hadn’t really changed much about the way Gregory saw him, but this was beginning to. 

His attention shifted to their surroundings when the car slowed to a stop. They were on a posh stretch of street parked in front of a small shop with only a symbol painted on a small wooden sign above the door. Gregory squinted at it and found a spool of thread with a needle poking out.

“A tailor?” he asked before Mycroft could abscond from the car. 

Mycroft looked over at him. “Your deductive skills aren’t as poor as Sherlock assumes.” 

Gregory saw the snarky smile, but Mycroft left the car before he could retort. “You’re a right git,” he said when he emerged. 

“I haven’t the foggiest as to what you are referring to, Inspector.” He was stood in front of the iron gate in front of the shop with a pleased expression. 

Gregory rolled his eyes. “You’re an arse.” He waved Mycroft on and followed him up the three steps into the shop. 

An older gentleman looked up from a ledger, correcting a pair of spectacles to the bridge of his nose. “Mr Holmes!” He walked around the receiving desk to shake Mycroft’s hand. “This is a pleasant surprise. I thought your last collection would be sufficient for some time.” 

Mycroft seemed more relaxed than he usually was around the public. “Yes, they are very much doing their duties, Geoffrey. However, I am not here for myself.” He turned and held out a hand to a very confused Gregory. “I fear I am in debt to Mr Lestrade. His last suit was destroyed due to Sherlock’s behaviour. I would like to replace it for him.” 

“Of course, Mr Holmes. It would be a pleasure.” Geoffrey turned to Gregory. “Please do come into my shop. Any friend of Mr Holmes is a friend of mine.” 

As he walked forward, Gregory knew exactly what that meant. Mycroft was about to drop a fortune on him in silk and wool. He glanced at Mycroft’s face and knew he wasn’t going to argue either. 

He looked happy. And not just the cemented, falsely pleasant sort either. The expression seemed genuine with the corners of his mouth tilting up just so and the small creases around his eyes growing deeper. 

Drawing himself out of his observations, Gregory put on a smile and greeted Geoffrey like they had been mates in school. 

While Geoffrey got busy, Mycroft moved about the shop. He flipped through books of fabrics and twiddled with a tie pin or two. Gregory watched the idle fidgeting in the mirror and found himself smiling like an idiot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a sidenote, I would like to point out that I have commissions open. I will have information up on my tumblr @ 221bbitch.tumblr.com and on my profile here. <3


	9. Tie Pins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Suit arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter because it's actually a continuation of chapter 8, and it feels super choppy to me. And on top of that, it's really frickin' short. I hope you enjoy it though.

Gregory strode down the hallway to the room that had been ‘readied’ for him but he had never slept in. It was more or less a closet at this point, empty but for clothes and his toiletries.

As much as he didn’t want to, he needed to head back to the office. He had been gone for a little over a week and couldn’t let things slide any longer. Croft had been emailing him on the regular about things and asking advice, but there were things that he needed to do himself.

Besides, Sherlock was starting to wear on even Croft whom had the patience of a Saint.

Getting out of bed had been harder than he wanted to admit. Mycroft had been wrapped around him like an octopus and getting away had been damn near impossible. But more than that, it had been warm and soft and he hated the idea of not coming back to it for however long. He never knew when he would get back long enough to actually sleep.

They had created a bubble of contentment, and Gregory never wanted to leave in the same way that people who went on long vacation to a sunny island felt at the end of their stay.

The darkness of night hadn’t been broken yet by the sparkle of dawn, but he knew he needed to leave earlier because of the long drive into the city. He sighed to himself as he opened the door to ‘his’ room and flipped on the light. They wouldn’t ever get this back and it troubled him terribly.

He needed a hot shower to take his mind off it and to switch his dressing. The wound was still weeping slightly and he had no desire to have to change his shirt in the middle of the day.

He stopped halfway to the loo when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He turned and what he saw laid out over the bed made him groan in exasperation.

_ Three-piece problem, indeed, _ he thought to himself.

A suit the colour of falling ashes was laid out on top of the duvet, pressed and perfect. A waistcoat in the same colour sat innocently beside it with a lavender dress shirt. Oddly, there was no tie.

He shook his head and ran his fingers over the suit. It was probably the softest wool he had ever felt in his life. He needed to do something for Mycroft to show him how much he appreciated everything that he had given him since… since they’d met, actually. He had no idea what would equate to that, but he had time to think.

Shower first.

He emerged feeling better about everything in general except the sting that came from where he had gotten soap in his stitches. He had shaved and managed to corral his hair into some semblance of order before stepping out into the room with a towel around his hips.

He was startled to see Mycroft sitting against the headboard still in his pyjamas.

“Good morning,” Mycroft said as he gave Gregory’s still damp skin a once over.

Gregory felt a flush creep to his face. “Morning.” He walked forward to the drawer where he had put some of his own clothes away. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I also need to return to the real world today. I have let a few things go too long and need to mend a few relationships.” He folded his legs and turned his eyes away as Gregory pulled on his pants.

“I know what you mean. I have four new cases to catch up on and a few to close.” He went and dropped the towel into the hamper he had discovered in the loo before returning to the bed and pulling on his new trousers.

“Are they comfortable?” Mycroft asked, looking at him again.

Gregory closed them and nodded. “Perfect.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “You’re bleeding again. Come here.”

Gregory looked down at the stitches and saw that the bit that was stinging was actually bleeding. He went to Mycroft who dabbed at it with tissues he had recovered from the side table. “Thanks. Hate to get it on the new suit.” He gave Mycroft a pointed look. “Which I’m thankful for, by the way.”

Mycroft gave him a small smile. “I’m glad of that.”

Gregory leaned down and kissed him. Mycroft made a small sound of surprise. “I mean it.”

He looked up at him with teal eyes. “I know.”

“Help me put on a new dressing?” he asked, both wanting to change the subject and actually needing to get going.

Mycroft nodded. “Of course.”

Gregory took the tissues from him and held them against his side while he retrieved the gauze and paper tape from his bag. He passed it to Mycroft and stood still in front of him. He placed his hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck to get it out of the way. He kneaded with his fingers while Mycroft’s moved deftly over his ribs, smoothing out the tape around the edges of the gauze pad.

“It is supremely hard to concentrate with you doing that,” Mycroft muttered as he looked up.

Gregory laughed quietly. “Yeah, well, I like doing it. Guess you’re just going to have to try harder.”

That earned him an annoyed furrow of Mycroft’s brow, but he didn’t argue as he finished taping down the strip.

“Thank you, Myc.”

“Why do you call me by the bastardization of my name?” Mycroft asked.

Gregory raised a brow. He had wondered if it would ever get brought up since even Mummy Holmes didn’t get to call him by it. “I guess because I like to think that you don’t have to be so serious with me.” He moved away to pull on the shirt.

Mycroft watched as he left it hanging open to put on his belt. He wasn’t angry about it. He had let it slide and now there was no going back from it. “I suppose that is an acceptable answer.”

Gregory shrugged as he started buttoning his shirt. “Good because it’s the truth.” He looked down at himself. “I don’t think I’ve ever worn this colour before.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, well, I believed it would suit you, and it does.”

“Not complaining.” He held up the waistcoat. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I wore one of these?”

“No,” Mycroft answered. He didn’t sound happy with the fact that he had no idea.

“When I got married the first time.” He shook his head and smiled ruefully.

“You do not have to wear it, Gregory,” Mycroft said quickly.

Gregory rolled his eyes. “I don’t care to wear it. Not my point. I was just thinking about it. Besides, it would be a waste not to wear it.” He pulled it over his shoulders and started to button it.

“Wait.”

He looked at Mycroft and paused. “Yeah?”

“You’re missing something,” Mycroft pointed out. He picked up a box that had been beside his thigh and pulled out a strip of silk in a deeper shade of lavender.

Gregory snorted. “I noticed. Wondering where it had gotten off to.”

Mycroft stood and popped Gregory’s collar, looping it around his neck. With deft movements, the tie was knotted perfectly at Gregory’s throat, and the collar was folded back down with care.

“I have been thinking—“

“You do little else,” Gregory interjected and gained a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, well, I was thinking specifically of how much I have enjoyed having you here these last few days. I would like to know if you might want to make it permanent.” He wasn’t looking him in the eye. He was busy flattening the tie down Gregory’s front.

Gregory stilled his hands. “You want me to move in with you?”

Mycroft sighed and finally met his curious gaze. “Yes, I would. I understand if you have no desire to. I realize that I do live away from the city.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not a surgeon, Mycroft. When I get a call, it’s not really a time sensitive problem. That’s why I have a team. Besides, it’s not all that far.”

Mycroft seemed to consider his answer. “So you do..?” he left the question open, afraid of the answer.

“’Course I do. Be a right idiot to turn you down.” He turned Mycroft’s face up to his own and kissed him solidly.

 

The lift dinged quietly when it reached the floor he needed and the doors slid open to reveal his division. Only a few people were milling about and they still looked dead on their feet.

He carried on to his office with the tea he’d gotten at his favourite vendor. He had hopes that today would be quiet. He doubted it, but the hope was always there.

Popping the buttons on the jacket, he sat and started about getting his files in order and entering notes into the system.

Afternoon arrived before he actually realized he had been sitting there for hours on end. He checked the time and got up to stretch his legs.

“Might as well check on Croft,” he muttered to himself.

He buttoned the jacket and entered the wide space the team used for a communal office.

Croft looked up when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye and froze. He couldn’t figure out why government was here. Then he swept up to the face and dropped his pen. “What the bloody hell? You going official on us, Lestrade?”

Lestrade turned toward him and put his hands in his pockets. He could feel people looking his way now. “Gift.” He shrugged and felt like a ten year old with his hand in the biscuit jar.

“That’s some gift,” Croft pointed out, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s some friend,” Lestrade said with a certain tone of levity that he hoped would articulate that he couldn’t really talk about it.

Croft tilted his head but decided to let it go. “Right. Well…” He launched into what had happened while Lestrade had been gone.

Lestrade breathed deeply in relief and regretted it as soon as the stitches pulled. Oh well, at least he didn’t have to explain today.

 

He had come to retrieve a specific jacket but couldn’t move from his place inside the doorway to the flat. Years he had lived in this space on his own. He had fooled himself into thinking he was happy. Now, he knew what it really was.

Moving finally, he sat in the chair next to the sofa. He hadn’t ever felt this way in the beginning of his and Shelley’s relationship. Even then, he had felt like it was just because it was what he was  _ supposed _ to want.

He had met her not long before he met Sherlock and Mycroft. Everything had seemed perfect. In his thirties, he knew that he didn’t have an infinite number of chances to get it right. So, instead of waiting, he had married her.

Now, he supposed, that maybe it hadn’t been fair to either of them. Though, it had made him smarter about whom he had chosen the second time.

Mycroft wasn’t exactly someone to run out on him.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Maybe that was why he felt out of place. This had been a layover, a placeholder, not a permanent destination.

The thought made a smile tilt his mouth. It made him feel better about the flat to know that this wasn’t where he was supposed to end up.

With renewed purpose, he stood and went to collect some things before heading out of the city toward the manor.

As the tires ate away the miles, Gregory felt lighter. Doubts fell away and he became more firm than he had been that morning about his decision.

Mycroft was his end game. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a sidenote, I would like to point out that I have commissions open. I will have information up on my tumblr @ 221bbitch.tumblr.com and on my profile here. <3


	10. Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are finally in the same country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, darlings. I want to thank each and every single one of you for staying with me through it all. 
> 
> I know I am a few days late and I will offer no excuses other than my own emotional turmoil. I hope you all enjoy this. Please let me know. 
> 
> <3

Moving was a nightmare and Gregory hated it, but they had managed it without too much squabbling between them. Other than his personal things, he didn’t have much at all to bring with him. That spoke more about his previous relationship than he liked to admit. When he looked forward to the life he planned on sharing with Mycroft, the sadness waned.

Unfortunately, he was unable to enjoy it for more than a few days because with summer came a rash of killings. He spent more time napping at his desk than he did sleeping in their bed, and it was starting to take its toll on the both of them.

He made sure to at least call to check in and see how Mycroft was doing with his own work. A lot of it was classified information that they couldn’t talk about, but in the vagueness, they found a common ground.

The nights he did manage to get home like a normal person, Mycroft was usually gone to some far off country to smooth ruffled political feathers. Those nights were the hardest because the house seemed so damned empty.

On the upside, it gave him time to do things that would have been nearly impossible while Mycroft was in town.

 

New York’s shining lights winked up at him where he looked out the aeroplane’s window. He had found many years ago that he actually did like New York quite a lot despite its rather atrocious reputation for being a cesspool.

Sighing, he returned his attention to the computer on his lap. He had so much work to do before he landed in London again. If he managed to get ahead of things, he might be able to see Gregory for more than ten minutes.

He shook his head. He had grown so attached in such a short amount of time that it was almost startling. He did console himself with the fact that he had known Gregory for over ten years; he wasn’t just a person that he had taken up with after only a few days.

Unlike Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes at the thought of his brother and John Watson. Their _relationship_ as it was made the pressure that persisted behind his eyes become more acute.

He hoped the doctor didn’t end up breaking his brother’s heart. The fallout would be irreparable. He didn’t think Sherlock would survive it.

He thought of Gregory again and wondered if he had bollocksed everything up by asking him to move in. He knew they were both busy people and days, weeks even, spent apart were bound to happen. The knowledge didn’t make it any easier. Living together for two months, they had only managed to spend a handful of nights together.

Anxiety crept into the back of his mind at the thought that maybe Gregory was having second thoughts concerning their relationship. He wasn’t compatible with most people. In fact, he wasn’t sure he was compatible with anyone. He had spent the majority of his life alone and he couldn’t see how that would somehow miraculously change. Especially with someone who was completely extraordinary is his ordinariness.

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t think Gregory was brilliant in his own way. The more time they spent together, he came to realize that Gregory had a way with people that was something he had never mastered despite thousands of hours of trying. It was a natural skill that came like breathing to his Inspector, and it served him well in what he did.

How else would they have come together? Mycroft hadn’t really known how to court someone properly. Despite that, Gregory had made him come to terms with his _feelings_.

In a way, he was thankful for it. It no longer ate away at his mind. He didn’t have to question whether or not Gregory felt the same. He was firm in their feelings for each other and that gave him a bedrock to stand on, to build on.

The thought was what kept him working through things and kept the anxiety at bay. Gregory had been the one to instigate their relationship, after all. He wouldn’t have done so if he hadn’t felt in return. The logical mind wouldn’t let Mycroft dwell on it too long because of that.

He thought all of this as he wrote an e-mail to the President of the United States about an upcoming event that he would be unable to attend due to his previous engagement in an undisclosed location.

Couldn’t have everyone knowing where he was all the time.

 

Gregory stretched out on the sofa in one of the sitting room with a book and sighed. He’d finally managed to get a full day off, and he was going to enjoy it. His phone was off with one exception and he was almost positive the exception was in Uzbekistan or somewhere similar saving the free world.

At that thought, he pulled his mobile out and decided to ring him.

The line only rang twice before he heard Mycroft’s voice. “Good morning, Gregory.”

“Morning, Myc,” he said, finding himself smiling at the crown molding that went around the ceiling. “Busy?”

“Always. However, I have a moment. Did you need something?” He sounded as he always did, serious but completely calm.

“Just wondering if you were on my side of the planet,” Gregory said as he found his place and laid the book on his stomach.

“I am actually at Baker Street. Sherlock is being petulant. Our parents are in London and he refuses to cooperate with taking them to the cinema.” His voice conveyed his annoyance.

The surprise that they were both within driving distance of each other was on the positive side of delightful. “I’m sorry he’s being a child. Can I buy dinner and try to take your mind off it?”

The question was met with a moment’s pause. “Please. I am free after four.”

“It’s a date. I’ll send you where to meet me since I’m sure you’ll still be in London.” Gregory’s mind was already turning on where he wanted to take Mycroft.

“I will, unfortunately. I will speak with you then.” He paused. “Goodbye, Gregory.”

“Bye, Myc. See you tonight.” He clicked off and put an arm behind his head. He was suddenly not in the mood to read. However, taking a nap sounded fantastic.

In the wake of the harrowing last two months, it made perfect sense to lay in the puddle of sunlight coming through the window and fall asleep.

 

He had sent a message with the details of their dinner together to Mycroft hours ago. For the past hour, he had been fidgeting over what he would wear. He hadn’t ever been one to be finicky over his clothes, but he wanted to be at his best for tonight. It had been a week since he’d actually laid eyes on Mycroft and that had only been for half an hour.

He looked at himself in the floor-length mirror in the closet and made sure that his tie was lying flat against his chest. It was. His suit was impeccable and his shoes shined to within an inch of their lives.

He sighed and went into the bedroom, picking up his wallet and keys with a hope that this would all go well.

Victoria had been busy all day with cleaning, and he told her as he headed out that they were going out for dinner. She smiled and waved him on.

He took Mycroft’s car that he only drove on days off--nearly never-- and headed into the city. The restaurant he had directed Mycroft to wasn’t far from NSY, but it was quiet and he’d assured that it would be private. He knew Mycroft hated being in public places for extended periods of time.

Parking, he locked it up and left his real world problems at the door as he entered the building under an awning that bore the name. He spoke quietly to the hostess, and she informed him that Mycroft was already there in a small sitting room that was attached to the room he had reserved for just the two of them.

He should have known Mycroft would be early. He always was if he could help it.

Instead of collecting a drink first, he went directly to the small alcove she had directed him to and found Mycroft sitting with a glass in his hand. He looked good in the black pinstriped suit that he wore. A golden pocket chain lay at his waist, and he seemed relaxed.

“Hey, Myc,” Gregory said with a small smile.

 

Mycroft hadn’t been to this particular place in a very long time. He was rather fond of it, however. It was quiet and Gregory had procured the most reclusive room in the establishment. The scotch in his hand tinkled quietly when he moved it to sip as he read reports on his phone.

It was a particularly nice way to unwind after using all of his energy to _not_ strangle his little brother. Sherlock had been particularly heinous this afternoon, and he was trying to rid himself of the kind of thoughts that had been brought about by his infuriating sibling.

He felt more than saw someone in his immediate proximity and glanced up. His breath fell short as he stared at Gregory.

The black lines of the very last suit he had made for him were stark against the cream of the walls behind him. It made him seem as if he had been cut out of a dark night devoid of stars. The dark emerald green of Gregory’s shirt was impeccable against his tanned skin, and a silver tie slipped its way inside of his waistcoat.

His mouth was dry as he tried to answer Gregory’s greeting. He couldn’t manage to get words out for a long moment but finally rose, leaving his phone and glass on the table. “Hello.” His voice wasn’t as strong as he had hoped, but at least he had been able to actually speak at all.

Gregory stepped into his space and before he could object to anything being in public, he pulled the curtain to their small alcove to give them a moment of privacy. When he turned back, he pressed his mouth firmly to Mycroft’s. His hand swept up to the back of his neck as it usually did and he stepped closer so Mycroft could feel the heat through his suit. His own hands settled on Gregory’s hips and held onto him, trying not to crease his slacks.

Teeth nipped at his bottom lip and Mycroft pulled back in surprise.

“Sorry,” Gregory said quietly. “Just missed you is all.”

Mycroft felt his ears burn at being so skittish. “No, it’s alright.” He swallowed. “I missed you as well.”

Gregory smiled and pressed their mouths together again, nipping him again. He tasted the scotch in Mycroft’s mouth and pulled a soft sound from him.

After a moment, he lifted his mouth and laid their foreheads together. “Hi,” Gregory said with a grin.

Mycroft’s mind was a muddle for a flicker of a moment. “You already said that,” he mumbled.

Gregory let out a puff of a laugh that Mycroft felt against his face. “Yeah, well, I like saying hi to you.” He pulled away enough that Mycroft could see his eyes properly and his smile. “Have you been here long?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Only a few moments.”

“Good. I hate making anyone wait. Hungry?”

“Famished. I haven’t eaten since...” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Sometime yesterday, actually.”

Gregory’s brows came together and he looked concerned. “Can you tell me why not?”

“In all honesty, I forgot.” Mycroft’s expression was sheepish as he disengaged from Gregory and sat back down in his chair.

Gregory opened the curtain back and nodded. “Well, I suppose that’s bound to happen.” He sat in the chair nearest Mycroft. “How are your parents?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Fine, though, they do love wasting my time.”

Gregory smiled and took Mycroft’s glass, sipping from it. Mycroft gave him an annoyed glance, but said nothing.

“Has everything been alright here? I know you’ve said that you’ve been busy with cases.” Mycroft hated small talk, but he cared about if Gregory was doing well or not.

Gregory unbuttoned his jacket and sat back. “Just incredibly busy. Sherlock has been driving me absolutely mad.”

“I would offer sympathy, but I did have to deal with him today.”

Gregory laughed. “True.”

“Excuse me, sirs. Your dinner will be served in a moment if you would like to move to your table.”

They both looked over to see a young woman in a pressed uniform standing with her hands clasped in front of her.

“Best news I’ve heard all day. Thank you,” Gregory said as he stood. He let Mycroft precede him and followed after.

 

Halfway through dinner, Gregory took a breath. Everything so far had gone off without a hitch. He figured that now was as good a time as any.

“Myc, can I talk to you about something?” he asked as he laid his silverware against the edge of his plate.

Mycroft followed his example and waited patiently.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you because I would want that in reverse.” He swallowed. “I was nervous about everything that’s happened in the last year for us. I was afraid we would drift or something would pull us apart. We made it though.” He sighed. “I know you know all of this but I’m nervous again.”

“I can tell,” Mycroft pointed out, but said nothing further.

“I keep thinking about all of the things that you’ve given me over time. I was struggling with what I could give you that would equate.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flat black square that was three inches wide on both sides. It almost looked like some sort of wallet.

He slid it across the top of the table toward Mycroft. “I think I figured it out about a week ago.”

Mycroft’s brows came down, but he didn’t reach for it. “I did those things because I wanted to, Gregory.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m giving you that because I want to.” He should have known that Mycroft would be difficult about receiving anything. “Figured it was time I give you something; that’s what people do. They give to one another.”

Mycroft seemed to cave and pulled it toward him. It took only a moment for him to figure out the case, but when he did, it opened like a clamshell and the holder in the middle spun exactly how it was designed to.

In the little contraption in the center, a silver band sat innocently and shone in the light from the candles on the table.

Mycroft stared at it and Gregory could see the wheels turning in his mind. It seemed as if he hadn’t quite registered what was going on.

“I’d like to ask for something else from you, but I’ll give it back exactly in return.” He took a breath. “I’d like to ask for a lifetime.”

Mycroft hadn’t moved and Gregory was beginning to wonder if he had done this too early. He began to say that they would wait, but Mycroft finally let his fingers trail over the silver.

He plucked it out of the clamshell and slipped it onto his finger. “That seems like a bargain.”

-End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, darlings, for spending your time with me. I always look forward to seeing your comments and talking to all of you. 
> 
> There will be another chapter to this, but it will be posted seperately as I want to keep this one rated G. The other will be Explicit. I will post it as an Epilogue here so if you would like to be alerted to it, you can follow this story. 
> 
> See you all next time, darlings.


	11. Pajamas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Explicit Epilogue that I promised way back in April.

Here is the final part to this adventure we went on together. Thank you for everything you have given me in return. 

 

http://archiveofourown.org/works/8109718


End file.
